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bp  JHatffarct 


THE  OLD  GARDEN,   AND  OTHER  VERSES. 
Enlarged  Edition.     i6mo,  gilt  top,  $1.25. 

JOHN  WARD,   PREACHER.     A  Novel.    i6mo, 
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SIDNEY.   A  Novel.   i6mo, $1.25;  paper,  50 cents. 
THE  STORY  OF  A  CHILD.     i6mo,  $1.25. 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &   COMPANY, 

BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  CHILD 


BY 


MARGARET   DELANO 

AUTHOR   OF    "JOHN   WARD,    PREACHER,"    "SIDNEY,"    "FLORIDA 

DAYS,"  "THE  OLD  GARDEN,  AND  OTHER  VERSES  " 


Heaven  lies  about  u>  in  our  infancy 

WORDSWORTH 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 
(£fa  &itersi&e  press, 
1892 


Copyright,  1892, 
BY  MARGARET  DELAND. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


To  the  dear  Memory  of 

N.   W.   C. 
In  recollection  of  a  happy  childhood 


497045 


THE  STORY  OF  A  CHILD 


MY  own  opinion  is,"  said  Mrs.  Dale, 
"  that  he  heard  they  were  coming 
to  Old  Chester  again,  and  he  felt  that  his 
presence  would  be  an  embarrassment  to 
her,  and  so  went  away.  Very  properly, 
I  'm  sure ;  it  shows  very  nice  feeling  in 
a  person  like  Mr.  Tommy." 

"  Well,  perhaps  so,"  Mrs.  Wright  agreed ; 
"  but  I  don't  know  why  he  should  shut  up 
his  little  house,  and  go  away,  dear  knows 
where,  just  because  she  is  to  be  in  Old 
Chester  for  the  summer.  Suppose  he  was 
foolish  when  she  was  here  before  ;  I  don't 
know  but  what  it  shows  a  little  conceit  on 

Mr.  ,  on  his  part,  to  think  that    his 

presence  makes  any  difference  to  Jane  — 


2  The  Story  of  a  Child 

I  mean  to  her."  Mrs.  Wright  corrected 
herself  nervously,  glancing  at  the  little  fig 
ure  curled  up  on  the  steps  of  the  porch. 
Mrs.  Dale  raised  a  cautioning  finger. 
"  Children  do  understand  things  in  the 
most  astonishing  way,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Mrs.  Wright  said  quickly ; 
"  I  did  n't  mean  to  mention  names,  I  'm 
sure.  But  it  is  so  awkward  to  have  the 
apothecary  shop  shut  up,  and  have  to  go 
to  Willie  King's  for  one's  medicines,  all 
because  Jane  Temple  —  Oh,  dear  me  !  " 
ended  Mrs.  Wright,  blankly. 

"  She  did  n't  hear  you,"  Mrs.  Dale  as 
sured  her  ;  "  it 's  almost  her  bedtime,  and 
she  will  go  in,  in  a  few  minutes.  But  do 
be  careful,  dear  Susy." 

Mrs.  Wright,  who  despite  her  forty-five 
years  was  still  in  the  bubbling  inconse 
quence  of  youth,  said  nervously,  "  Oh,  my 
gracious,  yes  !  I  did  n't  mean  to  ;  only, 
the  Temples  have  n't  been  in  Old  Chester 
for  four  years,  and  I  'm  sure  that  is  time 


The  Story  of  a  Child  j 

enough  for  him  to  have  forgotten  that  he 
was  ever  so  foolish  as  to  think  of  —  of 
her"  said  Mrs.  Wright,  swallowing  the 
name  ;  "  and  I  'm  sure  she  never  encour 
aged  him  !  " 

"  Of  course  not/'  Mrs.  Dale  agreed. 

"They  are  talking  about  Mr.  Henry 
Temple's  sister,"  the  child  on  the  steps 
reflected  ;  "  and  they  are  talking  about 
Mr.  Tommy  Dove  going  away  and  leav 
ing  his  house  all  shut  up.  They  have  to 
talk  about  those  things  because  they  are 
grown  up." 

In  her  heart  she  pitied  them,  but  not  too 
deeply  to  disturb  the  joy  of  that  delicious 
melancholy  that  a  child  feels  in  the  sum 
mer  twilight.  She  put  her  head  down  on 
her  arm,  and  looked  up  into  the  branches 
of  the  locust-trees,  standing,  sentinel-like, 
on  either  side  of  the  porch.  She  followed 
with  her  eyes  the  curious  outlines  of  the 
gnarled  and  twisted  limbs,  as  they  were 
drawn  against  the  violet  of  the  evening 
sky.  She  knew  those  outlines  well ;  they 


4  The  Story  of  a  Child 

met  and  crossed  in  a  way  that  suggested 
the  arm  and  clenched  hand  of  an  airy 
giant  imprisoned  by  the  growing  branches. 
She  had,  long  ago,  fashioned  a  story  to 
suit  the  tree  picture  :  She  said  to  her 
self  that  when  her  grandfather  died  this 
hand  was  stretched  out  to  rob  her  of  her 
grandmother,  too,  but  that  the  wrinkled 
branches  of  this  friendly  tree  had  caught 
it  and  held  the  giant  fast ;  when  the  wind 
blew  she  could  hear  him  whispering  and 
complaining,  but  the  faithful  tree  still 
kept  him  a  prisoner,  so  that  he  could  do 
no  harm.  The  thought  that  he  might  ever 
escape  made  her  shudder ;  it  occurred  to 
her  that  it  would  be  wise  to  do  something 
to  keep  the  tree  friendly ;  perhaps  water 
it  every  evening  ? 

Such  plans  led  her  far  away  from  the  talk 
of  the  grown  people.  She  did  not  hear 
Mrs.  Wright  say  that  if  only  "  he "  had 
been  in  a  different  walk  of  life  she  would 
have  been  glad  enough  to  have  had  "  her  " 
marry  him.  "Her  life  in  her  brother's 


The  Story  of  a  Child  5 

family  can't  be  very  happy,"  said  Mrs. 
Wright;  "her  sister-in-law  is  such  a 
wretched  invalid  that  she,  poor  dear,  has 
to  give  herself  up  to  the  housekeeping 
and  to  those  two  children.  She  ought  to 
have  a  home  of  her  own;  of  course  she 
would  be  lonely,  but  an  unmarried  woman 
must  expect  to  be  lonely.",  Mrs.  Wright 
said  this  with  as  much  severity  as  a  plump 
woman  can  ;  she  tried  to  have  Christian 
charity  for  every  one,  but,  being  happily 
married  herself,  she  found  it  hard  to  ex 
cuse  Jane  Temple's  single  life. 

"  Yes,"  Mrs.  Dale  admitted,  briefly,  and 
then  added,  "  but  it  is  better  to  be  lonely 
than  to  wish  to  be  alone.  If  she  had  mar 
ried  a  man  so  different  from  herself,  she 
might  have  come  to  that."  The  child, 
sensitive  to  the  change  in  her  grandmo 
ther's  voice,  looked  up,  and  her  little  fore 
head  gathered  in  anxious  wrinkles ;  she 
thought  she  would  like  to  take  Mrs.  Dale's 
hand,  and  kiss  it,  and  say,  "  Don't  be 
sorry  ! "  She  listened  for  some  comment 


6  The  Story  of  a  Child 

from  Mrs.  Wright,  but  none  came.  How 
still  they  were,  these  two,  sitting  in  the 
darkness !  The  full  skirt  of  her  grand 
mother's  silk  dress  looked  as  though  it 
were  carved  out  of  black  marble,  and 
above  it  glimmered  whitely  the  old  sol 
emn  face  that  she  loved  and  feared  ;  Mrs. 
Wright's  comfortable  form  seemed  to 
melt  into  mystery  ;  and  suddenly,  as  she 
looked  at  the  two  motionless  figures,  all 
the  intangible  dumb  terrors  of  childhood 
began  to  rise  in  her  throat.  Oh,  if  they 
would  only  speak  ;  if  she  could  hear  some 
other  sound  than  the  high  faint  stir  of  the 
leaves  above  her,  and  far  away,  below  the 
terrace,  the  prolonged  note  of  a  cicada ! 

"  Suppose,"  she  said  to  herself,  her  eyes 
widening  with  fright,  "  suppose  that  all 
of  a  sudden  grandmother's  head  and  Mrs. 
Wright's  head  were  to  roll  off,  and  roll 
down  the  steps,  right  here,  beside  me ! " 
Her  breath  caught  in  a  sob  of  terror. 
The  vision  of  the  rolling  heads  frightened 
her  to  the  last  point  of  endurance  ;  she 


The  Story  of  a  Child  7 

could  not  trust  her  voice  to  say  good 
night,  but  darted  down  the  steps,  and  ran, 
her  knees  trembling  under  her,  along  the 
path  to  the  back  of  the  house.  She  knew 
that  the  servants  would  be  in  the  kitchen ; 
yawning,  very  likely,  over  the  good  books 
Mrs.  Dale  provided  for  their  edification, 
or  rocking  and  sewing  in  stolid  comfort, 
but  alive  —  speaking  !  In  her  rush  along 
the  dewy  path,  the  child  had  a  ghastly 
thought  of  a  dead  world,  herself  the  only 
living  thing  in  it ;  but  that  was  followed 
by  the  instant  reflection,  that  under  those 
circumstances  she  might  walk  into  the 
queen's  palace  and  put  on  a  crown ;  this 
thought  was  so  calming  that  when  she 
reached  the  women  she  had  no  desire  to 
throw  herself  into  Betsey's  arms,  as  she 
had  planned  to  do,  declaring  that  she  would 
be  a  good  girl  forever  afterwards.  This 
promise  had  seemed  to  Ellen  necessary  as 
a  bribe  to  Something  ;  but,  her  passionate 
fright  over,  the  impulse  faded,  and  she  was 
content  to  pin  Betsey's  shawl  around  her 


8  The  Story  of  a  Child 

waist,  and  walk  up  and  down  the  kitchen 
with  a  queenly  tread,  absorbed  in  visions 
of  future,  if  solitary  greatness.  The  two 
ladies  upon  the  porch  were  rather  relieved 
by  her  flight,  though  Mrs.  Wright  checked 
her  kindly  gossip  long  enough  to  say, 
"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  with  Ellen  ?  " 

"  She  has  gone  to  tell  Betsey  to  put 
her  to  bed,  I  suppose,"  Mrs.  Dale  said. 
"  Dear  me,  Susy,  she  is  a  great  care !  I 
wish  she  were  like  your  Lydia,  —  quiet 
and  well-behaved.  I  often  think  I  'm  too 
old  to  train  a  child ;  and  she  is  very  like 
her  mother !  Poor  Lucy  was  not  brought 
up  according  to  our  ideas,  you  know." 

"She  reminds  me  of  Dr.  Dale,  some 
times,"  said  Mrs.  Wright,  who  was  con 
spicuous  in  Old  Chester  for  always  saying 
the  wrong  thing. 

Mrs.  Dale's  face  hardened.  "  I  only 
wish  she  may  grow  to  be  like  my  dear 
husband  in — in  amiability." 

"Oh,  dear  me,  yes!"  cried  Mrs.  Wright, 
with  an  exuberance  that  betrayed  her. 
"Dear  Dr.  Dale!" 


The  Story  of  a  Child  9 

Mrs.  Dale  bowed  her  head. 

The  thoughts  of  both  these  women 
were  on  Dr.  Eben  Dale,  —  one  with  hon 
est  pity,  the  other  with  the  scorch  of  mor 
tification  and  anger.  He  was  dead,  the 
brilliant,  weak  old  man,  —  dead,  and  es 
caped  from  his  wife's  fierce  rectitude.  In 
their  youth  she  had  harassed  him  with 
the  passionate  spur  of  exacting  love,  but 
latterly  that  had  been  exchanged  for  con 
tempt.  And  then  he  died.  No  one 
guessed  her  grief,  covered  as  it  was  by 
bitterness,  and  yet  no  one  knew  her  fear 
of  that  joyous  and  imaginative  tempera 
ment  which  had  made  it  easy  for  him  to 
go  wrong,  and  which  she  saw  repeated  in 
her  grandchild. 

When  Mrs.  Wright  said  that  little 
Ellen  was  like  her  grandfather,  Mrs. 
Dale's  heart  contracted ;  she  lost  her  in 
terest  in  Jane  Temple's  affairs ;  she  began 
to  examine  her  conscience  as  to  whether 
she  was  doing  her  duty  to  the  child.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  her  husband  was  look- 


io  The  Story  of  a  Child 

ing  at  her  'from  Ellen's  eyes, — looking 
and  laughing,  as  though  he  and  she  took 
up  the  old  quarrel  again. 

"  Like  her  grandfather  !  "  Mrs.  Dale's 
thin  old  hands  clasped  each  other  in  a 
tremulous  grip.  "  Oh  —  no  —  no  !  "  she 
said  to  herself.  "Oh,  if  my  Heavenly 
Father  will  only  give  me  grace  to  train 
her  for  Him!" 


II 

OLD  CHESTER  is  a  hundred  years 
behind  the  times  ;  so,  at  least,  it  is 
assured  by  its  sons  and  daughters,  who 
have  left  it  to  live  in  the  great  world,  but 
who  come  back,  sometimes,  for  conde 
scending  visits  to  old  homes.  The  town 
lies  among  the  rolling  hills  of  western 
Pennsylvania,  —  hills  which  have  never 
echoed  with  the  scream  of  the  locomotive, 
but  are  folded  in  a  beautiful  green  silence, 
broken  only  by  the  silken  ripple  of  little 
streams  which  run  across  the  meadows  or 
through  the  dappled  shadows  of  the  woods. 
There  is  not  much  variety  in  Old  Ches 
ter.  The  houses  are  built  in  very  much 
the  same  way  :  broad  porches ;  square 
ii 


12  The  Story  of  a  Child 

rooms  on  either  side  of  a  wide  hall  that 
runs  from  the  front  door  to  the  back ; 
open  fireplaces  like  black  caverns  under 
tall  wooden  mantelpieces.  In  all  the  gar 
dens  the  flower-beds  are  surrounded  by 
stiff  box  hedges,  and  all  the  orchards  are 
laid  out  in  straight  lines. 

The  people  are  as  much  alike  as  their 
houses  :  they  read  the  same  books,  go  to 
the  same  church,  train  their  children  by 
the  same  rules,  and  are  equally  polite,  re 
served,  and  gently  critical  of  one  another. 

Perhaps  the  most  striking  thing  about 
the  village  is  the  way  in  which  the  chil 
dren  are  brought  up.  In  Old  Chester 
young  persons  are  supposed  to  be  seen, 
and  not  heard ;  they  are  taught  that  when 
they  have  the  privilege  of  being  in  the 
company  of  their  elders  and  betters  it  is  to 
profit  by  example,  and  be  grateful  for  ad 
vice.  Thus  they  early  perceive  that  their 
opinions  are  of  no  importance,  and  need 
not  be  expressed  ;  a  perception  which  adds 
greatly  to  the  comfort  of  grown  persons. 


The  Story  of  a  Child  13 

In  spite  of  this  admirable  system,  there 
has  been  more  than  one  black  sheep  in  the 
village.  There  'was  Eben  Dale  himself, 
although  his  youth  dated  so  very  far  back 
that  perhaps  his  maturity  should  not  be 
quoted  against  Old  Chester.  Henry  Tem 
ple,  too,  had  not  turned  out  well  —  except 
in  a  worldly  way  ;  and  the  worldly  way  was 
of  small  importance  in  Old  Chester.  In 
deed,  without  quite  putting  it  into  words, 
the  village  felt  a  little  lack  of  gentility 
in  Henry's  undoubted  wealth  ;  and  that, 
added  to  his  change  in  politics,  and  his  in 
difference  to  church  matters,  and  his  will 
ingness  to  live  in  the  great  world  instead 
of  the  village,  was  enough  to  make  Old 
Chester  say  that  he  had  "  not  turned  out 
well."  "  Such  a  pity  that  his  father  was 
so  lenient  with  him  ! "  the  people  said ; 
and  waited  calmly  for  some  Nemesis  to 
overtake  him.  It  being  a  peculiarity  of 
Old  Chester  to  believe  that  an  overruling 
Providence  agreed  with  it  in  questions  of 
desert. 


14  The  Story  of  a  Child 

There  had  been  one  instance  of  over- 
severity  in  the  village,  but  only  one,  and 
that  not  among  the  families  of  importance. 
This  was  in  the  case  of  Mr.  Tommy  Dove, 
the  apothecary.  His  mother  had  ruled 
him  with  an  iron  rod  until  his  forty-sev 
enth  year  ;  then  death  pushed  her  from 
her  throne,  and  left  Mr.  Tommy  free,  ex 
cept,  indeed,  for  the  restraint  of  tender 
ness,  which  death,  kindly  but  untrue,  left 
in  her  place.  Yet  he  soon  rallied  into 
self-reliance;  "  remarkably  soon,''  Old 
Chester  commented  disapprovingly ;  for, 
within  three  months  after  her  death,  he 
took  advantage  of  his  liberty  to  go  gad 
ding  about  the  world,  leaving  his  patrons 
to  get  their  medicines  where  they  might. 

Dates  were  remembered  chronologically 
in  the  village :  "  Dr.  Dale  gave  up  prac 
tice  the  winter  that  the  first  Mrs.  Dray- 
ton  died  ;  "  —  "  Henry  Temple  voted  the 
wrong  ticket  the  year  there  was  a  snow 
storm  when  the  apple  -  trees  were  in 
bloom  ; "  and  "  Mr.  Tommy's  first  ill-reg- 


The  Story  of  a  Child  75 

ulated  action  in  mysteriously  leaving  town 
took  place  the  summer  that  Henry  Tem 
ple  and  his  family  were  here." 

Mr.  Tommy  was  hardly  important  enough 
to  gossip  about,  but  Mr.  Temple  was  ;  and, 
incidentally,  his  children  were  discussed ; 
for  spoiling  Richard  and  Euphemia  was 
another  of  his  sins.  Not  even  his  sister's 
efforts  to  train  them  could  make  up  for 
his  shocking  carelessness,  people  said. 
That  Miss  Jane  did  her  best  was  plain 
enough  ;  but  Miss  Jane  was  gentle  and 
timid  and  self-distrustful,  as  every  unmar 
ried  woman  should  be  ;  and  the  children, 
unfortunately,  were  like  their  father,  head 
strong  and  self-satisfied.  So  how  could 
she  discipline  them  ? 

Beside,  the  summer  of  the  Temples' 
first  visit,  —  the  summer  Mr.  Tommy  had 
disappeared,  —  Miss  Jane  had  a  small  hap 
piness  and  interest  of  her  own,  which  no 
doubt  claimed  the  thought  that  might 
have  been  given  to  Effie  and  Dick.  It 
was  not  a  very  exciting  happiness  ;  only  a 


1 6  The  Story  of  a  Child 

pleasant  talk  now  and  then  with  Mr.  Dove, 
or  an  occasional  call  from  him  in  those 
fragrant  summer  evenings.  They  would 
sit  alone,  these  two  elderly  persons,  in 
the  dimly-lighted  drawing-room,  hearing  a 
murmur  of  talk  in  the  library  across  the 
hall,  or  starting  with  a  fright  which  nei 
ther  of  them  understood,  if  a  door  opened 
and  closed,  or  if  Mr.  Henry  Temple's  voice 
was  heard  in  the  hall.  Mr.  Dove  had  dared 
to  give  Miss  Temple  a  bunch  of  flowers, 
once  ;  and  once,  too,  had  embarrassed  and 
touched  her  by  bringing  her  a  little  green 
crape  shawl  which  had  belonged  to  his 
mother.  It  was  all  very  harmless  and 
very  pleasant ;  when,  suddenly,  Old  Ches 
ter  learned  with  astonishment  that  its 
apothecary  had  gone  !  Of  course  the  rea 
son  could  not  long  be  concealed  :  Mr. 
Tommy,  the  village  declared,  aghast  and 
disapproving,  but  grateful  for  a  bit  of  gos 
sip,  —  Mr.  Tommy  had  made  love  to  Jane 
Temple  ! 

But  that  was  four  years  ago,  and  Mr. 


The  Story  of  a  Child  17 

Tommy,  who  returned  as  soon  as  the 
Temples  left  the  village,  had  behaved  so 
properly  ever  since  that  his  presumption 
was  not  remembered  against  him,  until 
now,  when  they  were  coming  back  again, 
a  second  abrupt  and  mysterious  departure 
brought  it  all  to  mind. 

"  So  foolish  in  Mr.  Tommy,"  every  one 
said,  severely,  and  looked  at  Jane  Temple 
to  see  how  she  took  it.  Miss  Temple  took 
it  calmly ;  there  was  a  quick,  surprised 
glance  at  the  closed  house  standing  in  its 
neglected  garden,  and  a  little  heightened 
color  in  her  cheek  when  she  went  to  Wil 
lie  King's  to  have  one  of  Mrs.  Temple's 
prescriptions  filled.  Perhaps  she  was  too 
busy  for  any  embarrassment,  or  regret,  or 
wonder ;  her  sister-in-law's  health  was  an 
absorbing  anxiety  ;  Effie's  lessons  had  to 
be  looked  after  ;  Dick  needed  her  to  keep 
his  fishing-lines  in  order  ;  Mr.  Temple  was 
so  good  as  to  let  her  be  of  use  in  his  lit 
erary  work,  to  the  extent  of  copying  manu 
script  for  him.  Beside,  there  was  a  certain 


1 8  The  Story  of  a  Child 

occupation  in  the  mere  delight  of  being 
back  again  in  her  old  home,  among  old 
friends.  This  quiet,  old-fashioned  living 
which  afforded  Mr.  Henry  Temple  much  di 
version  was  dear  and  sacred  to  her.  There 
was  nothing  droll  to  her  ears  in  being  called 
a  "girl ; "  it  gave  her  a  pathetic  happiness 
to  have  Mrs.  Dale  apologize  for  speaking 
of  a  delicate  subject  in  her  presence.  "  I 
forgot  you  were  here,  my  dear,"  Mrs. 
Dale  said,  and  Miss  Jane  blushed,  prop 
erly  and  prettily,  and  felt  comforted  and 
cared  for.  She  knew  more  of  the  great, 
indifferent,  vulgar  world  than  Mrs.  Dale 
ever  dreamed  of,  but  she  cast  down  her 
eyes  unaffectedly  when  the  older  woman 
apologized  for  speaking  of  the  miscon 
duct  of  a  village  girl.  She  wished  she 
might  draw  Dick  and  Effie  into  this  tran 
quil  life  which  so  refreshed  her.  She 
looked  at  these  two  young  persons,  and 
pitied  them  because  they  did  not  know 
Youth.  Here,  in  Old  Chester,  how  care 
fully  Youth  was  guarded !  It  was  still 


The  Story  of  a  Child  19 

protected  and  considered  when  maturity 
had  set  its  mark  about  soft  lips  and  gentle 
eyes.  It  was  done  by  snubbing,  Henry 
Temple  said,  but  Miss  Jane  never  felt 
snubbed  ;  she  saw  only  kindly  protection 
in  the  condescension  which  so  amused  her 
brother,  and  her  elderly,  starved  heart 
basked  in  it  with  great  content.  She  was 
so  modest,  so  grateful,  that  her  friends 
were  pleased  to  say  of  her  that  Jane  had 
no  "airs."  This  most  satisfying  praise 
could  not  be  given  to  the  rest  of  the  Tem 
ple  household  ;  the  two  children  were  es 
pecially  "  airy,"  and  "  snubbing "  became 
a  matter  of  duty  to  all  thoughtful  persons. 
"That  unfortunate  Temple  child,"  Old 
Chester  said,  in  speaking  of  Effie,  "  must 
really  be  reproved."  The  reproof  was  only 
the  rebuke  of  a  grave  manner  and  a  dis 
creet  indifference  to  what  she  said  and  did, 
but  it  astounded  and  irritated  the  child. 
To  hear  herself  addressed,  on  the  rare  oc 
casions  when  she  was  noticed,  as  Euphe- 
mia,  instead  of  Effie,  —  for  Old  Chester 


20  The  Story  of  a  Cbild 

did  not  approve  of  nicknames,  —  filled  her 
with  childish  rage. 

"  My  name  's  Effie ;  I  don't  like  to  be 
called  Euphemia,"  she  always  retorted 
glibly;  and  she  gave  her  opinion  of  Old 
Chester,  in  this  connection,  with  great 
freedom  and  force  to  Ellen  Dale. 

"  How  queer  and  old  -  fashioned  every 
body  is  here,"  she  said,  "and  how  funny 
to  be  called  Ellen  ;  it 's  such  an  ugly  name  ! 
Why  don't  you  make  your  grandmother 
call  you  Nellie  ? " 

"  Make  "  her  grandmother !  Ellen,  who 
was  really  a  year  older  than  the  fine  young 
lady  who  addressed  her,  shivered  ;  yet 
there  was  no  Old  Chester  child  so  quickly 
influenced  by  Effie  Temple  as  she. 

All  the  children  had  received  Effie  with 
admiration,  and  even  a  little  fright.  Ellen 
and  her  dearest  friend,  Lydia  Wright, 
talked  about  her  in  lowered  voices.  They 
felt  vaguely  that  there  was  something 
naughty  in  thinking  too  much  of  the 
strange  little  girl,  whose  hair  hung  over 


The  Story  of  a  Child  21 

her  eyes  and  waved  loosely  about  her 
shoulders,  who  possessed  two  rings,  and 
who  never  wore  aprons.  One  morning, 
soon  after  Effie's  arrival  in  Old  Chester, 
Ellen  whispered  to  Lydia  behind  her  spell 
ing-book,  at  school,  that  if  she  would  come 
down  to  the  fence  of  the  east  pasture  that 
afternoon,  she  would  be  there,  — "  and 
tell  you  something  about  her"  she  ended 
mysteriously. 

Lydia  opened  her  round  eyes  very  wide, 
and  shook  her  brown  curls.  "  May  be  my 
mother  won't  allow  me  to  go  down  to  the 
east  pasture,  Ellen." 

"  But  if  you  just  happened  to  be  walk 
ing  there,"  Ellen  tempted,  "  an'  I  hap 
pened  to  be  walking  on  my  side  of  the 
fence  ?  it  is  n't  like  visiting  ;  I  guess  we 
need  n't  ask  leave." 

"Well,"  said  Lydia  doubtfully. 

"  If  you  should  be  there,  and  you  should 
bring  your  sewing,  I  'd  do  it  for  you,"  El 
len  enticed ;  "  only,  of  course,  may  be  / 
won't  be  there." 


22  The  Story  of  a  Child 

"Well,"  said  Lydia  again,  but  with  more 
firmness. 

"  Mother  did  n't  say  I  must  n't,"  she 
assured  herself,  when,  in  the  afternoon, 
silencing  her  conscience  with  casuistry 
learned  from  her  friend,  she  ran  across 
a  sunny  meadow,  and  through  the  deep 
grass  of  an  orchard,  and  reached  the  east 
pasture.  Two  poplars,  one  on  either  side 
of  the  fence,  dropped  flickering  shadows 
through  the  sunshine,  and  their  smooth 
trunks  offered  a  comfortable  support  to 
any  one  who  climbed  up  and  sat  on  the 
fence,  as  Ellen  was  doing  now. 

"Why  !  "  said  she,  affecting  vast  aston 
ishment.  "  Where  are  you  going  ?  Won't 
you  stop  a  minute  and  talk  ? " 

"  Why,  Ellen,"  faltered  the  other,  "  you 
said  "  - 

"  I  happened  to  be  walking  along  here," 
Ellen  interrupted,  frowning,  —  it  was  so 
stupid  in  Lydia  to  forget  to  make  believe ; 
"  I  saw  you  coming,  and  I  waited  a  little 
while.  It  is  n't  visiting." 


The  Story  of  a  Child  23 

"  Oh,  no,"  Lydia  assented  weakly.  "  I 
—  I  brought  the  handkerchief  to  hem,  El 
len.  You  said  you  would,"  she  ended,  with 
a  confused  air. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind  doing  a  little  for 
you,"  Ellen  returned,  in  an  obliging  man 
ner  ;  she  ignored  the  arrangement,  but 
she  did  not  ignore  the  work. 

Lydia  reached  the  handkerchief  up  to 
her,  and  then  climbed  on  the  fence  and 
settled  herself  comfortably  against  her 
poplar.  Ellen  whipped  a  thimble  out  of 
her  pocket  and  began  to  sew  very  fast. 
"  She 's  coming  to  our  school  until  it 
closes,  and  when  it  does,  she  is  to  have  a 
governess." 

"Oh!"  cried  Lydia.  There  was  no 
need  to  say  who  was  coming.  To  the  two 
children  Effie  Temple  was  the  only  per 
son  of  importance  in  Old  Chester. 

"  She  does  n't  want  to,"  proceeded 
Ellen.  "I  heard  grandmother  tell  Mrs. 
Drayton  so.  Grandmother  said  it  showed 
how  she  was  brought  up,  that  anybody 


24  The  Story  of  a  Child 

knew  or  cared  what  she  wanted.  Grand 
mother  said  she  was  spoiled  7  " 

"Oh,  my!" 

"But  she  's  coming,  any  way.  And, 
Lydia,  do  you  know,  she  talks  French  ! " 
Lydia  was  speechless.  "  They  're  coming 
to  tea  to  our  house  to-morrow  night,  and 
she 's  coming.  And  grandmother  said  I 
might  have  my  tea-set  on  the  table  on  the 
side  porch,  —  just  Effie  and  me.  I  wish 
grandmother  would  invite  you." 

"  Won't  she  ? "  Lydia  asked  anxiously. 

"  No,"  Ellen  assured  her,  sighing.  "  I 
guess  I  '11  go  home  now  and  fix  my  tea-set 
for  to-morrow  night.  I  wonder  if  she  '11 
like  to  play  hollyhock  ladies,  or  hear 
stories  ?  Do  you  suppose  she  '11  like  sto 
ries  ?  I'll  tell  her  lots.  I'll  tell  her 
what  happened  to  me  when  I  was  a  little 
girl  and  was  sick." 

Lydia  knew  this  story  well,  but  she 
could  not  resist  asking  for  it  again,  and 
listening  with  delightful  shudders,  while 
Ellen,  cheerfully,  her  hands  clasped  around 


The  Story  of  a  Child  25 

her  knees,  staring  up  into  the  branches 
above  her,  related,  circumstantially,  and 
with  that  pride  in  illness  which  children 
feel,  how  she  had  taken  lots  of  medi 
cine,  and  got  worse,  and  worse,  and  worse, 
and  worse ;  and  then  at  last  they  thought 
she  was  dead ;  and  she  was  put  into  a 
coffin  and  buried,  —  here  she  paused  to 
quake  with  terror,  not  at  her  bold  untruth, 
but  at  the  picture  she  had  conjured  up,  - 
and  how  she  had  "escaped,"  —  and  thus, 
and  thus.  Neither  child  believed  this 
marvelous  tale,  but  it  was  true  to  both. 
Midway  in  her  fiction  Ellen  stopped  to 
say,  "  Oh,  Lydia,  do  you  know  any  French 
at  all?" 

It  was  not  often  that  Lydia  occupied 
the  proud  position  of  instructor  to  Ellen, 
so  it  was  a  happy  moment  when  she  said, 
"  Yes,  I  do  ;  I  know  '  How  do  you  do,  this 
morning  ? '  My  brother  told  me." 

"  Oh,  tell  me,"  Ellen  begged  ;  and  Lydia 
generously  said  something  which  sounded 
like  "  Coma-voo  port  ah  voo,  set  mattan." 


26  Tbe  Story  of  a  Child 

Her  pleasure  at  giving  Ellen  information 
almost  made  her  forget  the  vague  and 
gnawing  consciousness  that  she  had  done 
wrong  in  coming  out  without  permission. 


Ill 

THAT  tea-party  was  an  event  in  Ellen's 
life.  To  begin  with,  she  had  a  quarrel 
with  Betsey  Thomas,  who  was  dressing 
her. 

"  I  don't  want  to  wear  a  white  apron ; 
it 's  too  babyish.  I  won't !  So  there  !  " 

"  You  will,"  Betsey  assured  her  briefly, 
holding  out  the  hated  garment.  Ellen 
stamped  and  opened  her  lips  for  some 
outcry,  but  there  was  a  sound  in  the 
hall  outside  the  door,  and  she  only  drew 
a  sobbing  breath  and  waited ;  she  knew 
that  slow  rustle  of  her  grandmother's 
dress.  As  for  Betsey,  she  hailed  it  with 
delight. 

"If  you  please,  ma'am,"  she  said,  as 
27 


28  The  Story  of  a  Child 

Mrs.  Dale  entered,  "Ellen  won't  put  on 
her  apron." 

"  Grandmother,  I  don't  see  why  I  should 
wear  an  apron.  I  'm  going  on  twelve,  and 
Effie  does  n't  have  to,  and  "  — 

"  That  is  enough,  Ellen." 

Mrs.  Dale's  hair,  soft  and  white  as  spun 
silk,  was  caught  back  by  little  tortoise- 
shell  combs,  and  fell  in  three  short,  thick 
curls  on  either  side  of  her  face  ;  she  wore 
a  turban,  made  of  snowy  muslin,  and  the 
bosom  of  her  black  satin  gown  was  filled 
with  the  same  soft  whiteness,  crossed  in 
smooth  folds  and  fastened  with  a  small 
pin  in  a  silver  setting.  Her  delicate  old 
hands  were  covered  with  rings,  most  of 
them  with  strands  of  hair  beneath  dull 
glass.  She  looked  at  her  little  grand 
daughter  critically.  "Tie  her  hair  back 
with  a  brown  ribbon,  Betsey  Thomas," 
she  said,  and  Ellen  involuntarily  put  up 
her  hands  to  protect  the  pink  band  which 
held  her  straight  brown  locks  smoothly  in 
place.  Ellen  wore  her  hair,  as  did  all  Old 


The  Story  of  a  Cbild  29 

Chester  little  girls,  parted  in  the  middle 
and  cut  short  behind  her  ears.  It  was  so 
thick  that  it  made  her  head  look  like  a 
mop. 

Even  Betsey  regretted  the  order  about 
the  pink  ribbon.  "  She  wants,"  the  maid 
explained  afterwards  to  the  cook,  "to 
make  that  child  just  as  old-fashioned  as  if 
she  was  fifty,  I  do  declare !  And  that 
little  Effie,  all  dressed  up,  and  banged  and 
all  that.  There!  I  did  pity  our  Ellen." 

Ellen  pitied  herself,  but  submitted  to 
the  brown  ribbon  with  only  a  quiver  of 
her  little  red  upper  lip.  She  gave  a  de 
spairing  glance  in  the  long  glass,  and  saw 
a  small,  sturdy  figure  in  a  green  frock,  — 
a  frock  reaching  nearly  to  her  ankles,  and 
made  very  simply,  with  only  a  frill  in  the 
neck  and  sleeves  for  trimming  ;  she  saw 
the  white  dimity  apron  with  tabs  pinned 
up  on  each  shoulder ;  then,  rosy  cheeks, 
big  troubled  eyes,  and  the  brown  ribbon 
tying  back  the  straight,  silken,  brown  hair. 
That  straight  dark  hair  was  Ellen's  great- 


30  The  Story  of  a  Child 

est  cross.  Many,  many  times  she  had 
added  to  her  prayers  the  petition  that  it 
might  grow  light  and  curly,  or  that  she 
might  own  a  frizzled  yellow  wig  ;  and  she 
had  painfully  eaten  many  crusts  of  bread, 
having  been  told  by  some  deceitful  disci 
plinarian  that  to  eat  crusts  would  make 
her  hair  curl.  Perhaps  she  would  have 
been  happier  had  she  known  that  Mrs. 
Dale,  watching  that  glance  into  the  mirror, 
was  saying  to  herself,  "  How  much  better 
my  little  Ellen  looks  than  that  furbelowed 
Temple  child!"  But  Mrs.  Dale  would 
never  have  told  Ellen  that  she  looked 
nicely,  lest  the  knowledge  should  make 
her  vain. 

When  Ellen  saw  the  "Temple  child," 
with  her  yellow  hair,  and  her  white  dress 
and  blue  sash,  she  had  a  moment  of  that 
intense  anger  which  only  childhood  knows. 
She  grew  white,  and  her  grandmother,  see 
ing  the  change  of  color,  said  to  herself  that 
she  was  glad  to  see  the  child  show  a  little 
shyness.  Generally  Ellen  was  too  modest 


The  Story  of  a  Child  31 

to  be  shy,  though  Mrs.  Dale  did  not  make 
that  distinction  in  her  thoughts.  As  for 
Effie,  she  was  neither  modest  nor  shy. 

"  Oh,  how  do  you  do  ? "  she  said,  and 
took  Ellen's  limp  hand  in  hers  with  the 
most  matter-of-fact  and  grown-up  polite 
ness.  Then  Mrs.  Temple  spoke  kindly  to 
Ellen,  and  murmured  something  about  her 
dear  dead  mother ;  and  Miss  Jane  kissed 
her,  and  said  she  hoped  she  would  come 
to  see  Effie  often. 

"  If  grandmother  will  allow  me,"  Ellen 
answered,  her  anger  ebbing  as  she  spoke. 

"Now,  Ellen,"  said  Mrs.  Dale,  "take 
your  little  friend  to  the  side  porch.  Have 
you  put  out  your  tea  things  ?  Euphemia, 
you  and  Ellen  are  to  take  tea  on  the  side 
porch." 

Ellen  was  quite  joyous  by  this  time,  and 
took  her  guest's  hand  with  smiling  haste. 
Effie  looked  blank.  "Are  we  to  go  away  ?  " 

"Oh,  we  are  going  to  have  a  good  time; 
we  're  going  to  have  tea  all  by  ourselves. 
Come,  we  must  set  the  table ! " 


^2  The  Story  of  a  Child 

There  was  a  bubble  of  happiness  in  her 
voice.  She  had  forgotten  the  brown  rib 
bon,  and  the  plain  frock,  and  her  wrath. 
One  could  not  be  angry  when  one  could 
drink  tea  on  the  side  porch,  where  the 
jasmine  was  blooming  on  the  lattice,  and 
where  one  had  one's  oVn  china  dishes,  and 
small  cakes  baked  to  fit  them  ! 

Efne  stared  at  her.  "  Does  your  grand 
ma  make  you  set  the  table  ?  How  horrid ! 
We  have  servants.  I  thought  your  grand 
ma  was  rich  ? " 

"Rich?"  said  Ellen.  "I  don't  know. 
Don't  you  think  it 's  fun  to  put  out  your 
own  china  ?  It 's  mine,  you  know.  See  ! 
is  n't  that  teapot  pretty  ?  " 

EfHe  admitted  that  it  was ;  but  she 
looked  at  it  with  a  bored  irritation.  "  How 
queer,  not  to  go  to  supper  with  the  grown 
people,"  she  said. 

The  table  on  which  Ellen  spread  her 
cloth  was  really  only  a  wide  bench  at  one 
end  of  the  porch.  It  was  so  low  that  the 
children  sat  on  hassocks  instead  of  chairs. 


The  Story  of  a  Child  33 

Through  the  long  hall,  from  the  front 
porch,  they  could  hear  the  voices  of  the 
company;  but  here  all  was  quiet,  save  for 
their  own  chatter. 

"  Let 's  get  some  roses  for  the  table," 
Effie  suggested,  beginning  to  be  interested. 

"  Oh,  yes ! "  cried  Ellen,  and  then  hesi 
tated.  "  But  I  did  n't  ask  grandmother." 

"  Do  you  have  to  ask  ?  Why,  I  should 
just  tell  the  gardener  to  get  me  bushels,  if 
I  wanted  them." 

"Would  you?"  said  Ellen  wistfully. 
"I  have  to  ask." 

"  Well,  I  think  that 's  perfectly  dreadful;' 
Effie  sympathized,  emphasizing  her  words 
in  a  way  that  was  quite  new  to  the  other 
child.  Indeed,  many  things  were  new  to 
Ellen.  By  the  time  the  little  feast  was 
over  she  had  learned  much  that  she  had 
never  suspected.  She  was  told  that  Bet 
sey  ought  to  call  her  "  Miss  Ellen  or  Miss 
Nellie  ;  Ellen  is  awful.  I  'm  going  to  call 
you  Nellie  or  Nettie  ;  how  would  you  like 
Nettie?  Ellen  is  dreadful!"  She  was 


34  The  Story  of  a  Child 

assured  that  she  looked  awfully  queer  with 
her  hair  parted  and  cut  so  short,  and  with 
no  bang,  and  also  that  it  was  funny  to 
wear  an  apron :  although,  indeed,  she 
knew  that,  she  said.  And  then  she  con 
fided  the  story  of  the  afternoon. 

"  I  would  n't  stand  it !  "  cried  Effie.  "  I 
would  n't  let  anybody  rule  me  that  way ! 
I  'd  —  why,  my  goodness,  I  think  your 
grandmother  is  awfully  cruel." 

Ellen  gasped. 

"  You  poor  little  thing,"  Effie  went  on, 
"  it  's  perfectly  shameful,  the  way  they 
treat  you.  Well,  never  mind  ;  I  '11  take 
care  of  you,  only  you  must  have  some 
spirit.  Watch  me,  and  I  '11  show  you  how 
to  act :  Here,  Betsey  !  give  Miss  Nellie 
some  more  cake." 

Betsey  was  "that  dumfounded,"  as  she 
told  the  cook  afterwards,  that  she  "  did  n't 
hardly  know  what  to  say  ; "  what  she  did 
say,  looking  severely  at  Ellen,  was,  "  Eat 
your  pudding,  and  don't  talk,"  which  El 
len  scarcely  deserved,  being  speechless 


The  Story  of  a  Child  35 

with  astonishment.  She  was  thinking  to 
herself,  "  What  will  Lydia  say  when  I  tell 
her  about  it  at  recess  to-morrow  ? "  But 
she  helped  Effie  to  the  pudding,  and  sug 
gested  that  they  should  make  believe  that 
the  little  mounds  of  rice  on  their  plates 
were  mountains,  and  the  brown,  soft  raisins 
hidden  in  them  were  the  bodies  of  trav 
elers  buried  in  the  snow,  and  they  them 
selves  were  noble  St.  Bernard  dogs,  search 
ing,  at  terrible  risk,  to  save  imperiled 
lives.  To  do  this,  made  the  simple  dessert 
delicious  to  Ellen,  who,  in  eating  each 
frozen  traveler  as  soon  as  he  was  found, 
was  not  disturbed  by  any  sense  of  incon 
gruity.  But  she  had  so  far  profited  by 
Effie's  example  that  when  Betsey  reproved 
her  for  leaving  some  rice  upon  her  plate, 
with  the  remark  that  it  was  wicked  waste, 
and  that  some  poor  child  would  like  to 
have  it,  she  had  the  courage  to  retort  that 
she  did  n't  see  what  good  it  would  do 
the  poor  child  if  she  ate  the  rice. 

"  So  there  !  "  Effie  added,  to  encourage 
her. 


$6  The  Story  of  a  Child 

"  And  from  that  minute,"  Betsey  Thomas 
used  to  say,  "  I  took  a  dislike  to  that  young 
one ! " 

Effie's  indignation  at  her  hostess's  hard 
lot  was  very  impressive  to  Ellen ;  Lydia 
had  never  seemed  to  be  so  sorry  for  her, 
she  thought.  But  although  it  was  inter 
esting  to  talk  about  herself,  she  felt  that 
politeness  demanded  that  she  should  en 
tertain  her  guest,  and  so,  when  tea  was 
over,  she  reluctantly  interrupted  Effie's 
sympathy  to  ask  her  if  she  would  like  to 
play  martyrs. 

"  Martyrs  ? "  said  Effie,  with  an  unflat 
tering  readiness  to  change  the  subject. 
"  What  is  it  ?  I  don't  know  ;  yes.  Is  it 
forfeits,  or  anything  like  that  ?  I  like  for 
feits,  but  I  don't  want  to  play  any  old  im 
proving  game." 

"  It  is  n't  a  game,"  Ellen  explained ; 
"  it  's  just  —  martyrs.  Lydia  and  I  play  it. 
Come  down  in  the  garden  and  we  '11  make 
them.  Do  you  think  you  could  be  a  mar 
tyr,  Effie  ? " 


The  Story  of  a  Child  57 

"  Well,  you  are  the  queerest  girl ! "  was 
all  Effie  vouchsafed  to  say. 

The  two  children  ran  across  the  lawn, 
and  down  between  the  box-edged  borders 
to  a  group  of  hollyhocks,  standing  like 
slender  spires  against  the  yellow  sunset. 
Ellen's  face  was  grave  and  eager  as  she 
chose  the  flower  she  wanted,  but  Effie 
was  not  certain  whether  to  be  contemp 
tuous  or  interested. 

A  splendid  crimson  blossom  was  the  first 
one  to  be  picked.  "That  is  the  mother 
of  the  family,"  said  Ellen,  explaining.  — 
A  pale  rose  came  next,  —  "  that 's  the  eld 
est  daughter  ;  this  white  one  is  a  bride, 
and  she  has  consumption ;  and  this  little 
yellow  one  is  a  little  girl.  Like  me." 

"  Martyrs  ! "  said  Effie,  with  unaffected 
contempt.  "  I  never  heard  of  anything  so 
silly." 

"  You  wait,"  Ellen  answered  mysteri 
ously.  She  sat  down  on  the  grass,  and 
carefully  pulling  off  the  furry  calyx  of  each 
gorgeous  blossom,  she  bent  the  silken 


38  The  Story  of  a  Child 

petals  back  with  careful  touches,  and  then, 
plucking  long  blades  of  grass,  tied  what 
she  called  "  sashes "  about  the  waist  of 
her  floral  dolls  ;  after  that,  a  stalk  of  grass 
was  thrust  through  each  of  these  high- 
shouldered  ladies,  and  there  were  their 
arms  stretched  out  at  right  angles.  The 
feathery  pistils  made  stately  headdresses 
for  the  four  little  persons  who  were  to  die 
for  a  principle. 

Then  the  children  went  back  to  the 
house  and  pushed  four  matches  down  into 
the  mossy  line  between  the  flagstones  of 
the  path,  and  tied  a  martyr  to  each  little 
stake,  heaping  bits  of  twigs  as  fagots 
about  their  devoted  forms  ;  by  that  time 
Effie  was  as  absorbed  as  Ellen.  Ellen 
told  the  "  story  "  of  the  play,  but,  as  Effie 
was  company,  she  applied  the  fire ;  the 
"  torch,"  Ellen  called  it.  "And  they  said, 
'If  you  will  recant,"1  Ellen  recited,  the 
bride's  silvery  white  robe  shivering  at  the 
touch  of  the  flame,  —  "  '  if  you  will  recant 
you  shall  have  all  the  money  you  want, 


The  Story  of  a  Child  39 

and  a  palace  to  live  in.'  But  the  lovely 
lady  shook  her  head,  and  said,  '  I  won't,' 
and  so  they  burned  her  up."  Ellen's  lip 
quivered  as  she  reached  this  point  in  the 
story.  The  fresh  flowers  did  not  burn 
well,  and  their  prolonged  suffering  made 
her  so  unhappy  that,  suddenly,  she  scat 
tered  the  tiny  brands  and  rescued  them. 

"  Oh,  my  !  "  she  said,  "  I  fm  glad  I  did  n't 
live  in  Bloody  Mary's  time.  I  would  n't 
have  liked  to  be  burned.  I  know  it 's 
wicked,  but  I  would  n't.  I  tried  it,  to  see 
if  I  could,  and  —  I  couldn't?  she  ended,  in 
a  shamed  voice. 

"  How  did  you  try  it  ?  " 

"Well,  I  put  my  hand  in  the  candle, 
like  Cranmer." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"I  —  I  took  it  out  again.  Oh,  I  hope 
there  won't  be  any  more  persecutions. 
I  get  so  scared  thinking  about  it ! " 

"  You  're  the  funniest  girl !  "  Effie  de 
clared. 

Ellen  was  silent.     It  seemed  to  her  that 


40  The  Story  of  a  Child 

she  had  been  very  silly  to  cry  because  she 
had  not  been  able  to  keep  her  blistering 
finger  in  the  candle  flame.  After  a  while, 
she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  Did  you  ever 
read  '  Persecutions  in  Spain  '  ?  There  *s  a 
lot  about  martyrs  in  it.  It  scares  me." 

"What  do  you  read  it  for,  then  ?"  Effie 
inquired,  not  unnaturally  ;  but  she  could 
not  help  being  interested  when  Ellen  told 
her  of  beautiful  nuns  walled  up  alive  in 
dreadful  dungeons,  and  she  was  con 
strained  to  say  she  would  read  it  some 
day. 

"  It  would  be  nice  to  play  walling  up," 
Ellen  said  meditatively.  "  We  have  a 
brick  oven  round  by  the  kitchen  door  ;  we 
could  crawl  in  and  pretend  to  be  walled 
up  ? " 

Effie  was  enchanted  with  the  thought, 
and  the  two  children  hurried,  in  the  fading 
light,  to  the  old  oven.  It  had  a  turtle-like 
back,  and  stood  on  three  squat  brick  legs. 
Bread  had  been  baked  in  it  that  day,  and 
it  was  still  faintly  warm,  and  the  smell  of 


Tie  Story  of  a  Child  41 

fresh  bread  mingled  deliciously  with  the 
pungent  scent  of  wood  smoke.  There 
were  traces  of  ashes  about  its  cavernous 
mouth,  and  Ellen  pushed  in  the  fire-rake 
and  drew  out  some  charred  brands. 

Effie  had  no  suggestions  to  make,  but 
she  assented  eagerly  to  all  Ellen's  plans. 

"  They  used  to  leave  some  food  for  the 
nuns,"  said  Ellen,  "  so  we  must  put  in  a 
loaf  of  bread,  and  a  ewer,  —  it  always  said 
in  the  book  a  'ewer'  of  water.  But  who 
will  wall  us  up  ?  That  wooden  square  is 
the  door,  and  Betsey  puts  this  rake-handle 
against  it,  to  keep  it  up  when  the  bread  is 
in.  But  we  can't  do  that  when  we  get 
inside  ? " 

"Oh,  I'll  do  it,"  Effie  said:  "you  get 
inside,  and  I  '11  do  it." 

This  seemed  very  unselfish  on  Effie's 
part.  Ellen  hesitated,  but  the  temptation 
was  too  great,  and  she  crawled  into  the 
open  mouth  of  the  oven.  Then  Effie 
propped  the  door  in  place  with  the  rake- 
handle,  and  the  martyr,  curling  herself  up 


42  The  Story  of  a  Child 

to  fit  the  small  space,  folded  her  hands 
upon  her  breast  and  composed  herself  for 
an  ecstasy.  "  I  '11  sing  a  hymn,"  she 
called  out  in  a  muffled  voice,  —  "  the  mar 
tyrs  always  sing  hymns.  But  I  think  I  '11 
eat  my  bread  first."  She  crammed  some 
bread  into  her  mouth,  and  continued,  dra 
matically  ;  "I  must  save  this  bread — I 
must  make  it  last  as  long  as  I  can  !  but 
I  will  never  recant !  Never !  " 

Effie  really  shuddered  at  the  tone,  and 
was  about  to  tear  open  the  tomb,  when, 
unfortunately,  Betsey  Thomas  appeared,  to 
tell  Ellen  that  it  was  her  bedtime ;  Betsey 
cried  out,  and  scolded,  and  pulled  the  ash- 
covered  Ellen  from  her  martyr's  grave  and 
into  the  house,  to  her  intense  mortification 
and  anger. 

"  You  go  right  straight  to  bed  !  "  said 
Betsey.  "  My  !  just  look  at  you  !  Well, 
you  can't  go  on  the  porch  to  say  good 
night.  I  '11  tell  your  grandmother ;  see  if 
I  don't,  you  naughty  girl,  you  ! " 

In  the  midst  of   the  tirade  Effie  slunk 


The  Story  of  a  Child  43 

away,  and  Ellen  battled  with  the  servant 
alone.  But  in  the  end  she  went  upstairs 
to  bed,  and  cried,  and  thought  of  what 
Effie  had  said  of  the  hardness  of  her  life, 
and  prayed  a  great  deal,  with  that  bitter 
piety  which  is  a  form  of  resentment  and  is 
not  confined  to  adolescence.  She  looked 
at  her  arm,  which  Betsey  had  griped  with 
plump  fingers  while  expressing  forcible 
opinions,  and  saw  a  faint  red  mark.  She 
decided  to  show  this  mark  to  her  grand 
mother,  but  was  dismayed  to  see  that  the 
redness  was  disappearing,  and  so  pinched 
it  a  little,  that  it  might  bear  witness  to 
Betsey's  behavior. 

As  she  lay  in  her  little  bed,  looking  out 
at  the  fading  sky,  where  suddenly,  be 
tween  the  branches  of  the  pear-tree,  a  star 
shook  and  then  burned  clear,  she  heard  the 
murmur  of  voices,  and  sometimes  a  little 
low,  pleasant  laughter,  and  she  reflected 
that  Efrle  was  there  with  the  grown  peo 
ple,  while  she  —  had  been  sent  to  bed  !  — 
sent  to  bed  and  pinched 7  Oh,  how  miser- 


44  The  Story  of  a  Child 

able  she  was  !  How  cruel  her  grandmother 
was,  to  oblige  her  to  go  to  bed  at  half  past 
eight,  like  a  baby,  while  Effie  stayed  down 
stairs  with  the  company  ! 

Ellen  realized  that  her  eyes  were  wet, 
and  she  shut  them  tightly,  so  that  the 
tears  would  show  upon  her  lashes ;  her 
grandmother,  when  she  came  to  her  bed 
side,  as  she  did  the  last  thing  every  night, 
should  see  that  Ellen  had  been  crying,  and 
then  she  would  feel  badly.  Ellen  turned 
over  on  her  back,  so  that  the  pillow  should 
not  dry  the  tears,  and  determined  to  lie 
awake  to  note  the  effect  upon  Mrs.  Dale. 
She  extended  her  arm,  too,  with  the  sleeve 
of  her  night-gown  well  pushed  up  above 
the  fading  illustration  of  Betsey's  unkind- 
ness.  The  thought  of  Mrs.  Dale's  remorse 
began  to  soften  her,  and  then —  But  it 
was  morning,  and  Betsey  was  saying, 
"  Come,  get  up,  Ellen,  or  you  '11  be  late 
for  worship."  And  all  the  room  was  full 
of  sunshine,  and  it  was  not  until  an  hour 
later  that  she  remembered  her  wrongs. 


IV 

THE  friendship  between  Ellen  and  Effie 
grew  very  rapidly,  in  those  pleasant 
summer  days ;  they  saw  each  other  con 
stantly,  and,  as  though  that  were  not 
enough,  corresponded  by  the  aid  of  some 
thing  that  they  called  a  "  telegraph,"  —  a 
string  from  the  window  of  Ellen's  bed 
room  to  the  big  locust-tree  just  within 
Mr.  Temple's  grounds.  At  first,  Ellen's 
feeling  for  Effie  had  been  ecstatic  devo 
tion  ;  she  knew  for  at  least  a  week  the 
tremulous  pangs  of  bliss  and  pain,  the 
rankling  stab  of  jealousy,  the  spur  of  the 
desire  for  approbation,  the  impulsive  and 
ingenious  flattery  of  the  lover,  —  all  that 
goes  to  make  up  what  is  called  falling  in 
45 


46  The  Story  of  a  Child 

love.  And  then  her  idol  shattered  the 
idealization  with  a  wholesome  squabble, 
and  Ellen  came  down  to  commonplace 
friendship,  in  which  in  games  and  fancies 
she  was  first.  In  the  generosity  of  her 
imagination,  she  told  Effie  of  a  plan  she 
and  Lydia  had,  of  digging  up  a  great  stone 
in  the  woods,  under  which  Ellen  was  con 
vinced  were  buried  many  Indian  warriors, 
together  with  bags  of  gold,  tomahawks, 
and  copper  spears.  It  was  their  inten 
tion  to  dig  the  boulder  up,  and  then  pre 
sent  the  buried  wealth  to  their  grateful 
relatives.  The  skeletons  of  the  Indians 
Lydia  and  Ellen  were  to  keep  for  them 
selves. 

Effie  entered  cheerfully  into  the  project, 
but  she  did  not  care  to  dig ;  and  the  stone, 
gray  with  lichen,  and  bedded  deep  in  ferns 
and  moss  and  years  of  fallen  forest  leaves, 
continued  to  seal  the  riches  in  which  Ellen 
firmly  believed.  Effie  would  sit  under  a 
tree  and  watch  Ellen  tugging  and  straining 
at  a  big  stick  thrust  as  a  lever  under  one 


The  Story  of  a  Child  47 

side  of  the  rock,  or  digging  until  her  face 
was  as  crimson  as  the  single  columbine 
that  nodded  on  the  great  stone's  breast. 
Effie  had  not  a  very  lively  faith  in  the 
skeletons  beneath  the  stone,  but  she  liked 
to  hear  Ellen  talk  about  them.  "Will 
they  be  in  coffins  ? "  she  inquired  placidly. 
"No,"  Ellen  told  her;  "they'll  be 
wrapped  in  wampum  ;  that 's  golden  robes, 
I  think;  and  they'll  have  necklaces  of 
bear's  teeth,  and  strings  and  strings  of 
scalps !  Lydia  and  I  meant  to  keep  the 
scalps;  but  you  can  have  some."  She  was 
very  earnest ;  she  could  fancy  so  clearly 
the  great  moment  when  the  rock  should 
be  at  last  raised  from  its  bed,  —  she  saw  it 
heaving  up,  rocking,  balancing,  crashing 
over,  and  rolling  with  tremendous  bounds 
down  the  hillside  ;  she  knew  just  how  the 
grave  beneath  it  would  look  :  a  square  hole 
in  the  black  soft  forest  earth,  fringed  with 
ferns  and  windflowers ;  solemn  figures  ly 
ing  straight  and  still  within  it,  figures  hold 
ing  burnished  spears,  and  glittering  with 


48  The  Story  of  a  Child 

gold  and  gems,  and  decked  with  drooping 
scarlet  plumes  ;  a  hundred  times  she  had 
pictured  the  moment  when  she  should 
stand  looking  down  at  them,  while  high 
up,  with  faint,  far  sound,  the  tops  of  forest 
trees  stirred  between  her  and  the  blue  sky. 

As  this  project  involved  more  or  less 
hard  work,  Effie  liked  better  the  acting 
out  some  of  Ellen's  romances  of  daring 
and  of  love.  Lydia,  as  a  third  child,  would 
have  added  much  to  their  games,  but  Effie 
did  not  like  her,  and  so  she  was  left  out 
of  all  these  joys.  Ellen  no  longer  urged 
her  to  "walk  down  by  the  fence  in  the 
east  pasture ;  "  Ellen's  own  faithlessness 
made  her  say  that  the  disloyalty  was 
Lydia's ;  but  more  than  that,  her  former 
friend  seemed  very  young  ! 

That  Ellen  and  Effie  were  so  much 
together  was  pleasing  not  only  to  the  two 
children,  but  to  the  entire  Temple  house 
hold.  Miss  Jane  had  begged  Mrs.  Dale  to 
allow  her  granddaughter  to  be  with  Effie 
as  much  as  possible.  "  Because,"  she  ex- 


The  Story  of  a  Child  49 

plained,  "  Ellen  is  such  a  dear  child,  so 
modest  and  well  behaved,  that  I  am  sure 
her  example  will  be  good  for  Effie." 

Miss  Jane  said  this  at  the  first  meeting 
of  the  sewing-society  at  which  she  was 
present.  She  and  Mrs.  Dale  were  waiting 
in  the  church  porch  after  the  meeting, 
watching  an  unexpected  downpour  of  sum 
mer  rain.  "As  soon  as  the  carriage 
comes,  I  '11  take  you  home,  Jane  Temple," 
Mrs.  Dale  said ;  "  you  can't  walk  up  the 
hill  in  this  rain."  There  was  something 
in  her  voice  which  made  the  younger  wo 
man  redden,  and  answer  in  quick  excuse, 
"  I  suppose  no  one  at  home  has  noticed 
the  storm,  and  so  the  carriage  has  not 
been  sent  for  me." 

"  I  suppose  not,"  Mrs.  Dale  agreed 
dryly.  Like  everybody  else  in  Old  Ches 
ter,  she  blamed  Jane  Temple  because  her 
family  neglected  her. 

"  Besides,"  Miss  Temple  asserted,"  every 
body  knows  I  like  the  rain.  No,  I  don't 
mind  walking,  thank  you." 


50  The  Story  of  a  Child 

"  No  doubt,"  said  Mrs.  Dale  ;  "but  it  will 
give  me  pleasure  to  have  you,  my  dear, 
so  I  hope  you  will  come.  I  don't  know 
what  has  happened  to  Morris  ;  he  should 
have  been  here  five  minutes  ago." 

The  two  ladies  fell  into  an  uncomfort 
able  silence.  The  rain  dripped  steadily 
from  the  pitch  roof  of  the  porch,  and  fell 
into  the  pebbly  gutters  below  with  the 
sharp  running  chime  of  little  bells ;  the 
bare  earth  under  the  branches  of  the  fir- 
trees  on  either  side  of  the  path  gleamed 
with  pools,  and  the  grass  beyond,  growing 
thick  about  the  gray  tombstones,  seemed 
greener  every  moment. 

"  It  is  quite  a  rain/'  Miss  Jane  admitted 
reluctantly.  "  Perhaps  I  had  better  drive ; 
but  will  you  let  me  stop  and  get  a  pre 
scription  filled  for  sister  ?  " 

"Why,  certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Dale. 
"You  know  Willie  King  has  taken  Mr. 
Tommy's  place?  I  suppose  you  know 
that  Mr.  Tommy  has  disappeared  again  ?  " 
She  was  careful  not  to  look  at  Miss  Jane. 


Tbe  Story  of  a  Child  51 

"  So  I  heard,"  Miss  Jane  answered. 

"  It 's  very  vexing  in  Mr.  Tommy  to 
run  away  in  this  fashion,"  Mrs.  Dale  went 
on.  "  I  wanted  him  to  teach  Ellen  Latin 
this  summer ;  you  know  he  is  quite  a 
scholar  in  his  small  way —  Ah,  here  is 
the  carriage.  Get  in,  my  dear;"  and  then, 
a  moment  later,  "  I  wonder  if  your  sister- 
in-law  would  allow  Ellen  to  have  an  hour 
or  two  a  week  with  Euphemia's  govern 
ess  ?  " 

Miss  Jane,  whose  face  had  flushed  at 
Mr.  Tommy's  name,  hastened  to  say  that 
she  was  sure  Mrs.  Temple  would  be  glad 
to  make  such  an  arrangement ;  then  she 
made  her  little  speech  about  Ellen's  influ 
ence.  And  so  it  came  about  that  Ellen 
went  to  Mr.  Temple's  house  twice  a  week 
for  her  Latin,  and  at  least  once  beside 
to  spend  the  afternoon  with  Effie.  This, 
Mrs.  Dale  felt,  was  only  doing  what  she 
could,  as  a  friend  of  the  family,  to  im 
prove  Henry  Temple's  neglected  child. 
Ellen  carried  on  this  missionary  work  with 


52  The  Story  of  a  Child 

a  zeal  which  her  grandmother  never  sus 
pected. 

On  the  hill,  up  which  the  orchard 
sloped  to  the  edge  of  the  woods,  was  a 
latticed  summer-house.  It  was  old,  and 
long  ago  the  rain  had  painted  it  a  faint, 
soft  gray  ;  there  were  vines  all  about  it, 
which  almost  hid  the  diamond-shaped  win 
dows  in  its  sides,  and  lilacs  and  wild  cher 
ries  crowded  so  closely  around  it  that  any 
one  looking  up  from  the  kitchen  garden, 
or  even  passing  through  the  orchard, 
would  never  have  guessed  that  the  two 
children  met  in  it  almost  every  day.  And 
could  their  conversation  on  a  certain  Sun 
day  afternoon  have  been  overheard,  Miss 
Jane  might  not  have  been  so  sure  of  El 
len's  influence  upon  Effie,  and  it  is  proba 
ble  that  not  even  Mrs.  Dale's  willingness 
to  be  of  service  to  Henry  Temple  would 
have  made  her  consent  to  the  intimacy 
between  the  children. 

"  I  don't  think,"  Ellen  was  remonstrat 
ing,  "  that  you  ought  to  speak  so  to  Miss 
Jane." 


The  Story  of  a  Child  53 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Effie,  "I  won't  be 
ordered  around  by  anybody.  I  'm  not 
like  you  !  " 

The  two  children  were  sitting  on  the 
steps  of  the  summer-house ;  they  could 
look  down  into  the  orchard,  and  over  the 
roof  of  the  Dale  house,  which  lay  below 
them.  Beyond  was  the  white,  dusty  turn 
pike,  and  the  meadows,  and  then  the  blue 
curve  of  the  Ohio  River.  It  was  very  si 
lent  in  the  orchard ;  only  the  faint  rustle  of 
the  leaves  in  the  woods  behind  them  and 
their  own  hushed  voices  broke  the  sunny 
quiet.  Effie  had  said,  in  answer  to  Ellen's 
request  that  she  should  hear  her  say  her 
hymn,  "  Do  you  have  to  learn  hymns  on 
Sunday  ?  I  would  n't  be  you  !  Go  on  : 
'  Softly  now'"  — 

"  Softly  now  the  light  of  day, 
Fades  upon  my  sight  away ; 
Free  from  care,  from  labor  free, 
Lord,  I  would  commune  with  Thee." 

Ellen's  voice  sounded  as  though  she 
were  half  ashamed. 


54  The  Story  of  a  Child 

Effie,  scarcely  waiting  for  the  last  line, 
closed  the  book  with  a  bang,  and  tossed  it 
into  her  friend's  lap.  "  Aunt  Jane  wanted 
to  make  me  learn  a  hymn  on  Sundays,  and 
I  just  told  her  I  wouldn't.  She  asked  me 
if  I  would  n't  learn  one ;  and  I  said,  '  I 
can't,  I  can't,  I  cant,  so  there,  now ! '  I 
knew  if  I  did  it  once,  she'd  say  I  could, 
and  then  I  might  have  to  do  it  again." 

It  was  here  that  Ellen  made  her  protest 
for  Miss  Jane,  but  Effie  only  tossed  her 
head.  "Do  you  think  I  care  what  she 
says  ?  Nobody  cares  what  Aunt  Jane 
says.  Why,  look  here ;  I  '11  tell  you 
something  about  her, — only  it's  a  se 
cret  ! " 

"  I  '11  never  tell,"  Ellen  declared. 

But  she  was  not  much  interested ;  she 
was  too  conscious  that  it  was  Sunday.  Sun 
day  visiting  was  not  approved  of  by  Old 
Chester,  at  least  among  the  children,  and 
even  the  occasional  afternoon  calls  of 
grown  persons  were  more  or  less  apolo 
getic.  That  Ellen,  who  had  been  allowed 


The  Story  of  a  Child  55 

to  go  out  into  the  garden  to  study  her 
hymn,  should  have  dared  to  meet  "the 
Temple  child,"  and  spend  the  long,  still, 
sunshiny  hours  in  idle  talk,  was  something 
that  Mrs.  Dale  would  not  have  forbidden, 
because  it  would  never  have  seemed 
possible. 

Before  this  new  friendship  came  into 
Ellen's  life,  her  Sunday  afternoons,  in  sum 
mer,  had  had  a  distinct  and  happy  charac 
ter  of  their  own.  There  were  always  some 
verses  from  the  Bible  to  be  studied,  and 
a  hymn.  And  so,  book  in  hand,  mur 
muring  over  and  over  words  which  had 
little  meaning  in  her  ears,  she  wandered 
about  the  garden,  "getting  by  heart,"  as 
she  expressed  it,  some  of  the  noblest  ex 
pressions  of  the  spiritual  life.  Sometimes 
she  stopped  to  talk  to  the  flowers ;  some 
times  to  lay  her  cheek  against  the  ground, 
and  look  through  the  mist  of  grass  stems, 
and  weave  her  little  fancies  about  the 
world  of  bee,  and  butterfly,  and  blossom  ; 
not  unfrequently  she  climbed  into  the  low 


56  The  Story  of  a  Child 

branches  of  her  favorite  apple-tree,  and 
"  preached,  like  Dr.  Lavendar,"  to  the  con 
gregation  below  her  of  bending  and  rip 
pling  Timothy.  To  hear  herself  talk  of 
piety  and  obedience  gave  Ellen  all  the 
satisfaction  of  good  behavior  ;  her  exhor 
tations  were  so  earnest  that  she  mistook 
them  for  feelings,  —  a  mistake  incidental, 
perhaps,  to  the  pulpit.  She  might  stop  at 
this  stage  to  repeat  her  hymn,  and  then, 
still  murmuring  it  to  herself,  go  down  be 
low  the  terrace  where  the  violets  grew 
thick  under  a  larch  tree ;  to  sit  down 
among  them,  and  put  a  little  finger  under 
a  blossom's  chin  and  look  into  its  meek 
eye,  gave  her  far  more  joy  than  any  mere 
plucking  flowers  would  have  done.  She 
was  very  apt  to  come  to  this  part  of  the 
garden  for  a  certain  ceremony  which  she 
called  "  marrying  the  grass."  She  would 
kneel  down  and  tie  two  stalks  of  blos 
soming  grass  together,  and  pronounce 
some  solemn  gibberish  over  them,  which, 
she  said,  was  the  marriage  ceremony:  — 


TJ)e  Story  of  a  Child  57 

"  Now  you  're  married, 
We  wish  you  joy  ; 
Your  father  and  mother 
You  must  obey ; 
And  live  together 
Like  sister  and  brother  ; 
And  now  kneel  down 
And  kiss  each  other." 

Ellen  never  spoke  of  these  fancies  to  her 
grandmother,  not  from  any  secrecy  or  re 
serve,  but  because  of  their  absolute  com- 
monplaceness.  If  she  ever  reflected  upon 
them  at  all,  it  was  to  imagine  that  Mrs. 
Dale,  and  everybody  else  in  the  world, 
had  the  same  pleasant  thoughts. 

Beside  her  pretty  romancing,  she  had 
long  theological  arguments  with  herself. 
Mrs.  Dale  never  imagined  the  religious 
fogs  into  which  her  grandchild  wandered, 
or  how  again  and  again  she  wearied  her 
little  brains  over  the  puzzle  of  personal 
responsibility.  Nor  did  she  ever  fancy 
the  heartache  with  which  sometimes,  ro 
mancing  over,  the  child  sat  down  to  plan 
ways  and  means  of  showing  her  grand- 


5#  The  Story  of  a  Child 

mother  her  love,  for,  she  thought,  if  she 
could  only  express  that,  perhaps  Mrs.  Dale 
would  kiss  and  cuddle  her,  as  she  had 
once  seen  a  gypsy  mother  caress  a  little 
swarthy  black-eyed  child.  Swaying  to  and 
fro,  her  head  on  her  knees,  her  mop  of 
brown  hair  falling  forward  about  her  ears, 
Ellen  agonized  over  her  sins,  which  she 
was  sure  kept  her  from  her  grandmother's 
heart.  She  thought  of  things  she  might 
do  to  prove  her  affection  :  pick  all  the  flow 
ers  in  her  garden  and  put  them  down  for 
Mrs.  Dale  to  walk  on  ;  kiss  the  hem  of  her 
dress  ;  climb  up  to  the  top  of  the  locust- 
tree,  and  hang  by  her  feet  from  the  highest 
branch  to  give  her  grandmother  pleasure. 
She  thought  of  all  these  things,  and  many 
more  ;  and  yet,  somehow,  her  little,  crowd 
ing,  impetuous  love  remained  unspoken. 

The  meetings  with  Effie  in  the  summer- 
house  were,  in  a  certain  way,  of  a  healthier 
character  than  such  dreams  ;  if  only  they 
had  not  been  stained  by  the  consciousness 
of  Mrs.  Dale's  disapproval ! 


The  Story  of  a  Child  59 

And  here,  on  this  still  July  Sunday,  the 
two  children  were.  Ellen's  hymn-book  was 
open  on  her  knee,  and  she  had  silenced 
her  conscience  for  a  moment  by  thinking 
that  she  would  say  to  her  grandmother,  in 
a  casual  way,  "  I  saw  Effie  this  afternoon, 
as  I  was  walking  in  our  orchard,  and  I 
asked  her  to  hear  me  say  my  hymn."  The 
prospect  of  confession  lightened  her  heart, 
and,  the  hymn  repeated,  made  her  stay  on 
to  hear  the  secret  that  Effie  promised. 
"  I  '11  never  tell,"  she  urged. 

"Well,"  began  Effie,  edging  a  little 
closer  to  her  friend,  "you  know  Mr. 
Tommy  ?  I  mean  the  apothecary  man." 
Ellen  nodded.  "  Well,  you  know  how  he 
went  away,  the  last  time  we  were  in  Old 
Chester,  —  oh,  years,  and  years,  and  years 
ago,  when  I  was  a  little  girl  —  and  nobody 
knew  where  he  'd  gone,  and  he  never  came 
back  until  after  we  went  to  town  ;  and 
he 's  gone  away  this  summer  again,  and 
nobody  knows  wnere  he  is  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  Ellen,  but    she  was  disap- 


60  The  Story  of  a  Child 

pointed.  Grown-up  people  did  not  inter 
est  her,  and  beside,  there  was  nothing 
secret  so  far.  "  Everybody  knows  that," 
she  said. 

"But  nobody  knows  why  he  went," 
Effie  proceeded,  "except  me.  It  was 
aunty!"  Ellen  looked  puzzled.  "Goose!" 
cried  Effie.  "  He  was  in  love  with  her !  " 

A  little  more  color  came  into  Ellen's 
rosy  cheeks.  "  Effie,  Betsey  Thomas  says 
it  isn't  nice  for  little  girls  to  talk  about  — 
that." 

Effie  laughed  shrilly.  "  Why,  I  'm  eleven 
months  and  two  days  younger  than  you, 
and  I  Ve  been  in  love  myself." 

"Oh,  Effie!" 

"Yes,  I  have.  Well,  I  am  now,  too. 
He 's  —  oh,  he 's  perfectly  lovely.  He 
has  a  market  on  the  avenue,  about  three 
blocks  away  from  our  house.  And  he  's 
as  big  —  oh,  twice  as  big  as  papa.  He 
wears  a  white  apron  in  the  shop,  and  he 's 
just  lovely.  And  I  used  to  be  in  love 
with  my  cousin,  John  Lavendar.  We  were 
engaged.  He  gave  me  a  pressed  rose,  and 


lie  Story  of  a  Child  61 

I  wore  it  around  my  neck  on  a  black  silk 
thread,"  and  I  gave  him  a  pressed  pansy, 
and  he  kept  it  in  his  watch.  We  were 
going  to  be  married  when  we  were  four 
teen,  and  we  were  going  to  have  six  chil 
dren,  three  girls  and  three  boys.  That 
was  when  we  were  engaged.  But  I  told 
him  I  didn't  want  aunt  Mary  Lavendar 
for  a  mother-in-law ;  she 's  cross,  and  I 
hate  cross  people.  And  then  he  got  tired 
of  me,"  she  ended  cheerfully.  Ellen  was 
speechless  with  interest.  "  I  was  n't  mad  ; 
I  was  tired  of  him,  too.  I  '11  tell  you 
how  it  was.  We  were  playing  croquet, 
and  a  little  girl,  —  I  think  she  's  a  rela 
tion  of  his,  her  name's  Rose, —  she  came 
walking  along  with  her  nurse.  My  !  she 
was  so  little  ;  she  was  n't  more  than  four. 
And  John  said,  '  Effie,  if  Rose  was  a  little 
older,  she  'd  do  for  me,  would  n't  she  ? ' 
And  I  said,  'Well,  she'll  get  older,  and  I 
think  I  like  her  brother  better  than  you, 
so  let 's  change.'  So  we  changed." 

"  Are   you   engaged   to   her  brother  ? " 
Ellen  inquired  with  anxiety. 


62  The  Story  of  a  Child 

"  Oh,  no,"  Effie  said  pensively.  "I  saw 
the  marketman  then,  so  I  didn't  care  for 
Rose's  brother.  But  this  was  the  way  it 
was  about  aunty.  Mr.  Tommy  fell  in  love 
with  her,  and  he  proposed.  I  know,  be 
cause  I  heard  papa  tell  mamma  that  he 
came  in  and  found  him  proposing  to 
aunty.  Just  think !  I  wonder  what  he 
said?  'Will  you  be  mine?'  I  suppose. 
But  papa,  he  would  n't  allow  such  a  thing, 
of  course.  Mr.  Tommy,  just  an  apothe 
cary,  you  know,  and  to  fall  in  love  with 
my  aunt !  And  any  way,  she  can't  ever 
get  married ;  she  has  to  take^  care  of  us. 
Well,  papa  sent  him  off,  I  tell  you  !  Papa 
was  awfully  mad.  I  peeked  in  the  door, 
and  saw  him.  And  then  Mr.  Tommy  ran. 
I  saw  him.  He  ran  and  ran,  as  hard  as 
his  legs  could  carry  him.  And  the  next 
day  his  house  was  all  shut  up,  and  he 
didn't  come  back  to  Old  Chester  until 
we  'd  gone  away." 

"And  was  Miss  Jane  mad,  too  ?" 

"  Aunty  ?     No  !     That 's  the  joke  of  it. 


The  Story  of  a  Child  63 

She  liked  him.  She  thought  he'd  come 
back.  Nellie,  would  you  rather  marry  a 
sailor  or  a  man  ?  I  'm  going  to  marry  the 
captain  of  a  Cunarder,  so  that  I  can  go  to 
sea  all  the  time." 

Ellen  was  horrified.  "  Effie,  it  is  n't 
right  to  talk  that  way,  and  on  Sunday, 
too  !  And  —  the  marketman  ? " 

"As  though  Sunday  made  any  differ 
ence  !  Goodness,  I  would  n't  be  like  you 
for  anything, — being  told  all  the  time 
things  are  n't  right,  and  being  ordered 
round  by  everybody.  I  would  n't  stand 
it." 

Ellen's  face  flushed.  "  I  can't  help  it," 
she  said  sullenly. 

"  I  'd  help  it !  "  Effie  assured  her. 

"How?" 

"Well,"  said  Effie,  "in  the  first  place, 
I  'd  just  talk  right  out.  I  'd  say,  '  Grand 
ma,  I  'm  too  old  to  be  ordered  round,  and 
—  and  I  won't  stand  it ! '  And  then,  if  she 
did  n't  stop  being  cruel,  I  'd  run  away  ! " 

"  Oh,  I  've  thought  of  that  lots  of  times," 


64  The  Story  of  a  Child 

Ellen  said  dolefully,  "only  I  don't  know 
where  I  'd  go." 

"  Have  you  thought  of  it  ?  Oh,  Nellie  ! 
Let 's  talk  about  it  ;  let 's  do  it.  I  '11  go, 
too.  I  'm  tired  of  living  at  home,  though 
they  are  not  quite  as  unkind  at  my  house 
as  they  are  at  your  house.  I  've  decided 
to  do  something ;  I  'm  not  quite  sure  what. 
I  did  think  of  going  on  the  stage,  but  I 
don't  know  but  what  I  'd  rather  be  a  mis 
sionary.  It  would  be  awfully  nice  to  go 
to  Africa  and  see  the  Great  Desert.  I 
tell  you  what  let 's  do  ;  let 's  run  away 
and  be  missionaries.  You  know  lots  of 
hymns,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Ellen  said  with  enthusiasm  (and 
added,  in  her  own  mind,  that  she  would 
tell  her  grandmother  that  she  and  Effie 
had  talked  about  being  missionaries).  "  But 
we  're  not  very  old,  Effie  ?" 

"  We  're  old  enough  to  teach  the  hea 
then,"  said  Effie  piously.  "  I  was  con 
firmed  at  Easter,  so  of  course  it 's  all 
right  for  me.  Have  you  been  confirmed  ?  " 


The  Story  of  a  Child  65 

Ellen  shook  her  head,  and  Effie  looked 
conceited. 

"  Well,  perhaps  then  it  would  n't  do  for 
you  to  be  a  missionary  ;  but  I  'd  run  away, 
anyhow." 

"  I  had  n't  thought  of  being  a  mission 
ary,"  Ellen  acknowledged  ;  "  I  only  meant 
to  run  away.  I  used  to  think  I  'd  take 
one  of  the  benches  on  the  front  porch, 
and  turn  it  upside  down,  so  it  would  be 
a  boat,  you  know.  Then  at  one  end  I  'd 
put  some  loaves  of  bread  and  a  little  bar 
rel  -of  water,  and  maybe  a  ham.  Well, 
then  I  'd  get  it  down  to  the  river,  and 
push  it  in,  and  go  floating  off.  Pretty 
soon  I  'd  reach  the  Mississippi "  —  Ellen's 
eyes  grew  vague  with  her  dream.  She 
saw  it  all  as  she  spoke,  —  the  yellow  water 
lapping  and  rippling  against  the  sides  of 
the  upturned  bench ;  the  green  meadows 
along  the  shore  ;  the  sudden  splash  of  pad 
dle-wheels  as,  perhaps,  some  great  steam 
boat  passed  her,  and  disappearing  among 
the  hills,  left,  like  a  drift  of  melody,  the 


66  The  Story  of  a  Child 

sound  of  its  calliope  behind  it.  "When 
I  got  to  the  Caribbean  Sea,  I  'd  find  a 
desert  island,  and  live  on  it.  I  Jd  eat  cocoa- 
nuts,  and  breadfruit,  and  get  a  man  Fri 
day,  and  some  goats.  Then  I  'd  send 
beautiful  presents  home."  Ellen  paused 
to  think,  not  of  the  difficulties  of  trans 
portation,  but,  with  bitter  joy,  of  the  coals 
of  fire  such  presents  would  be  to  her 
grandmother.  "  But  perhaps  it  would  be 
better  to  be  a  missionary,"  she  ended. 

"' Course  it  would,"  Effie  assured  her; 
and  they  began  to  make  many  plans. 

And  when,  that  evening,  after  tea,  El 
len  stood  before  her  grandmother,  repeat 
ing  her  hymn,  she  was  much  too  full  of 
her  devout  intentions  to  remember  to 
.confess  how  she  had  spent  her  afternoon. 
She  heard  Mrs.  Dale's  comments  on  the 
hymn,  received  her  quiet  kiss,  and  was 
told  that  she  might  walk  about  in  the  gar 
den  till  bedtime.  Her  mind  was  still  in 
tent  upon  voyages,  and  desert  islands,  and 
converted  cannibals,  but  something  in 


The-  Story  of  a  Child  67 

the  touch  of  the  soft  old  hand  upon  her 
head  stirred  the  child's  heart.  Confession 
rushed  to  her  lips. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  said,  flinging  her  arms  about 
Mrs.  Dale's  neck,  "  I  love  you  very  much  ; 
only  I  —  I  "  —  The  tears  were  in  her 
eyes,  and  her  hot  face  was  buried  in  the 
spotless  neckerchief. 

"  There,  my  dear,  there  ;  control  your 
self,  Ellen.  Ah,  my  child,  if  instead  of 
protestations  you  would  be  an  obedient 
little  girl,  how  much  more  that  would 
prove  your  love  than  these  foolish  out 
bursts  !  "  Mrs.  Dale  sighed.  Ellen  drew 
back  quickly ;  rudely,  her  grandmother 
thought.  "  Be  more  gentle  in  your  move 
ments,"  she  said  ;  "  do  not  be  so  abrupt." 

"  Yes  'm,"  Ellen  answered,  with  a  sob 
in  her  throat.  "  Oh,  how  I  hate  grand 
mother  ! "  she  said  between  her  teeth,  as 
she  darted  down  into  the  garden.  There, 
below  the  terrace,  she  threw  herself,  sob 
bing,  on  the  grass  that  grew  deep  and 
soft  under  the  solemn  branches  of  a 


68  Tbe  Story  of  a  Child 

larch.  The  check  to  her  impetuous  love 
caused  her  to  forget  her  own  wrong-doing. 
She  said  to  herself  that  nobody  loved  her, 
and  she  was  very  wretched.  Little  Ellen 
had  the  temperament  which  made  it. pos 
sible  to  observe  her  sorrows  and  measure 
her  emotions ;  life  was  always  more  or  less 
spectacular  to  her,  and  she  exaggerated 
her  woes  for  very  interest  in  them.  Just 
now,  as  she  was  so  ill-treated,  she  wished 
she  might  be  very  ill  and  die.  It  gave 
her  pleasure  to  fancy  her  sufferings  and 
the  grief  of  her  friends  ;  especially  did  her 
mind  dwell  on  the  neglected  Lydia,  whose 
astonishment  and  sorrow  filled  her  with  a 
delightful  sense  of  power  in  being  able  to 
produce  such  an  effect. 

"  Or  if  I  could  only  be  drowned  !  "  she 
reflected,  growing  happier  each  moment. 
"  When  they  found  me  in  the  river,  they  'd 
carry  me  home,  and  how  sorry  they  'd  be  ! " 
She  closed  her  eyes  and  saw  her  white 
dress  (a  white  dress  is  necessary  for  an 
effective  suicide), — saw  her  white  dress 


The  Story  of  a  Child  69 

dripping  and  clinging  to  her  figure,  and 
her  long  hair  (for  somehow  her  hair  must 
be  long),  —  her  long  hair  trailing  upon  the 
ground,  wet  and  straight.  She  thought 
how  pale  her  face  would  be,  how  tightly 
her  eyes  would  be  closed  ;  she  reflected, 
with  satisfaction,  how  Betsey  would  cry 
and  say  she  was  sorry  for  all  her  wicked 
ness  ;  and  she  thought  of  Lydia's  fright 
and  of  her  grandmother's  repentant  grief. 
At  that  she  involuntarily  sobbed,  which 
interested  her  so  much  that  she  began  to 
pity  and  forgive  everybody,  and  a  little 
later  went  very  happily  to  bed. 


EFFIE,  who  said  her  head  ached  too 
much  for  study,  was  leaning  out  of 
the  school-room  window,  kicking  her  toes 
against  the  wainscoting,  while  she  waited 
for  Ellen  to  finish  the  third  declension. 
"  Do  hurry  up  with  your  old  regibuses" 
she  called  over  her  shoulder,  and  a  mo 
ment  later  seized  Ellen's  hand  and  went 
skipping  from  the  room,  much  to  the 
relief  of  weary  Miss  Dace. 

Effie  had  a  suggestion  to  make  :  "  Let 's 
go  down  to  the  back  parlor  and  play  house 
under  the  sofa." 

"Won't  it  make  your  head  ache  more  ?" 
Ellen  said,  faintly  polite,  for  playing  house 

under  the  sofa  was  great  happiness. 
70 


TJ}e  Story  of  a  Child  77 

"No,"  Effie  assured  her;  "it's  only 
those  old  stupid  declensions  that  make 
my  head  ache.  Mamma  's  awfully  afraid 
I  '11  overwork  ;  so  I  always  tell  her  when 
I  think  I  'm  going  to  have  a  headache. 
Is  n't  your  grandmother  afraid  you  '11 
overwork  ? " 

"  No,"  Ellen  said  bitterly. 

But  for  once  Effie  forgot  to  be  sympa 
thetic.  "Oh,  Nellie,"  she  said,  "come 
look  at  the  idol ;  somebody  brought  it 
from  China  for  papa."  *• 

She  pulled  Ellen  across  the  room, 
where,  in  a  dim  corner,  mounted  on  an 
ebony  pillar,  a  small  bronze  Buddha  sat 
on  his  jade  throne.  Under  oblique  and 
cynical  eyebrows,  his  half -shut,  dreaming 
eyes  seemed  to  stare  with  strange  con 
tempt  at  the  two  silent  children. 

Ellen  caught  her  breath  and  made  a 
clutch  at  Effie's  arm.  The  dark  god 
was  looking,  from  under  those  puffed  and 
drooping  eyelids,  straight  at  her. 


72  Tbe  Story  of  a  Child 

"  Is  n't  he  ugly  ?  "  Effie  inquired  calmly. 
"And  he  's  really  an  idol.  He  used  to  be 
in  a  temple  with  lots  of  little  roofs  on  it, 
all  strung  with  bells  that  rung  when  the 
wind  blew,  papa  says.  And  he  had  things 
sacrificed  to  him,  —  rice  and  things." 

Ellen  made  no  answer.  So  much  came 
into  her  mind  —  scenes  from  "Little 
Henry  and  his  Bearer,"  and  various  other 
unpleasant  and  morbid  stories,  full  of  that 
cheap  sentiment  which  once  ministered  to 
childish  piety  — that  she  did  not  find  it 
easy  to  talk.  She  said  she  would  not 
play  house  under  the  sofa  ;  and,  followed 
by  Effie's  reproaches,  went  home  to  think 
about  the  god.  She  was  very  silent  at 
tea,  and  she  lay  awake  that  night  for  cer 
tainly  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  listening  to 
the  rain  dripping  on  the  leaves  of  the 
woodbine  about  her  window,  and  thinking 
of  the  bronze  image  with  his  strange  still 
smile.  She  shut  her  eyes,  and  fancied  the 
pagoda  with  its  roofs  strung  with  jangling 
bells ;  the  hot,  white  sunshine  pouring  on 


The  Story  of  a  Child  73 

the  dusty  streets  ;  the  palm-trees  stand 
ing  like  great  feathers  against  the  sky,  and 
the  figures  of  people  wearing  their  clothing 
all  wrapped  about  them,  like  the  paper 
spills  she  made  for  lamp-lighters.  Her 
mind  was  a  jumble  of  terms — palanquins, 
rupees,  coolies,  litters  —  gathered  from 
the  India  stories  of  the  Lady  of  the  Manor. 
The  Arabian  Nights  came  in,  too,  and 
beautiful  slaves  and  cream  tarts  and  roc's 
eggs,  danced  through  her  mind  with  be 
wildering  interest.  But  through  all  she 
seemed  to  see,  sitting  in  the  shadows  of 
the  temple,  with  rice  and  flowers  spread 
before  him,  and  joss-sticks  filling  the  air 
with  heavy  fragrance,  the  dark,  squatting 
figure  of  the  god,  smiling  cruelly  under  his 
tilted  eyebrows.  She  pictured  his  wonder 
now  at  Mr.  Temple's  drawing-room,  his 
contempt  for  the  two  little  girls  who  had 
stood  and  looked  at  him  that  afternoon, 
his  homesickness  for  his  worshipers,  his 
anger  because  no  sacrifices  were  offered 
him.  And  then  came  a  delightful  and 


J4  The  Story  of  a  Child 

terrible  thought,  a  thought  which  made 
Ellen  say  to  herself  that  she  was  very 
wicked !  After  that  she  fell  asleep,  but 
the  thought  came  back  to  her  the  next 
morning,  when  she  opened  her  sleepy  eyes 
to  the  sunshine. 

"  He  must  miss  those  sacrifices.  There 
wouldn't  be  any  harm  in  doing  it,  —  just 
for  fun.  And  if  all  those  heathen  people 
think  it 's  right  to  sacrifice  things  to  him, 
why,  may  be  it  would  be  safer  to  ?" 

More  and  more  delightful  did  the  plan 
appear  of  taking  some  flowers  and  laying 
them  down  in  front  of  him.  Yet  it  was 
a  week  before  she  confided  it  to  Effie. 

"  Oh,  yes,  let  's  worship  him  ! "  Effie 
agreed  with  enthusiasm. 

But  Ellen  shrank  at  the  word.  "  Oh, 
no,  that  would  be  wicked  ;  let 's  only  pre 
tend." 

It  was  Saturday  afternoon,  and  there 
was  no  one  at  hand  to  interfere  with  the 
strange  rites  which  the  two  children  be 
gan  to  enact,  in  the  back  parlor,  where, 


The  Story  of  a  Child  75 

cross-legged  upon  his  jade  cushion,  the 
bronze  god  watched  them  from  under  his 
sleepy  eyelids. 

It  was  curious  to  see  the  difference  in 
Ellen  and  Effie  as  revealed  in  their  rela 
tion  to  their  little  drama.  To  Effie,  until 
she  grew  tired  of  it,  it  was  a  play  ;  to  El 
len  it  was  tasting  sin,  with  the  subtle, 
epicurean  delight  of  the  artistic  tempera 
ment. 

They  made  great  preparations  for  their 
service.  They  lit  the  candles  in  the  sconce 
in  the  corner  where  Buddha  sat,  and  then  a 
row  of  bedroom  candles,  stolen  from  the 
table  in  the  back  entry.  Ellen  made  a 
larkspur  wreath,  sticking  one  blue  horn 
into  another,  until  the  whole  rested  in  her 
little  palm,  a  flat,  thin  crown,  just  large 
enough  for  Buddha's  head.  Then  she 
brought  a  dozen  of  those  dark  red  and 
deeply  sweet  roses  whose  stems  are  thick 
with  thorns,  and  put  them  in  his  lap. 
The  cool  dusk  of  the  room  was  pierced  by 
thin  lines  of  sunlight,  creeping  between 


j6  The  Story  of  a  Child 

the  bowed  shutters  of  the  west  windows, 
and  falling  in  tremulous  pools  upon  the 
floor.  Each  line  was  so  clear  in  the  dusk 
that  Ellen  chose  to  think  they  were  golden 
barriers  to  the  temple,  and  she  must  crawl 
under  them  to  reach  the  inner  court  of 
worship.  She  did  it,  solemnly,  her  little 
head  touching  once  or  twice  the  slanting 
sunbeam  above  her,  so  that  for  a  moment 
her  forehead  and  eyes  were  glorified ; 
then  she  dropped  down  on  her  knees  and 
looked  up  into  the  still,  dark  face.  She 
forgot  that  she  was  " making  believe;" 
the  god  became  horribly  real  to  her ;  she 
felt  the  sombre  mirth  of  his  cruel  eyes 
following  her  when  she  stepped  back  and 
forth  before  him,  and  the  desire  to  propi 
tiate  him  grew  into  actual  terror.  Efne 
brought  some  rice  and  scattered  it  in  front 
of  the  image,  and  watched  Ellen  bowing 
and  bending  and  muttering  to  herself  a 
little  pagan  prayer  which  spoke  suddenly 
in  her  soul.  The  perfumes  offered  some 
difficulty,  but  Effie  solved  it  by  stealing 


The  Story  of  a  Child  77 

into  her  mother's  room  and  bringing  down 
a  long"  green  bottle  of  cologne,  which  Ellen 
with  a  lavish  hand  sprinkled  all  about  the 
god. 

"We  ought  to  sing,  and  we  ought  to 
have  a  mat  to  kneel  on,"  she  said,  in  a 
whisper,  to  Effie,  who  reflected,  and  then 
said  she  would  go  and  get  something.  A 
moment  or  two  later  she  came  back  with  a 
green  crape  shawl  in  her  hands. 

"  It  came  from  China,"  she  explained  ; 
"aunty  said  so.  It  's  just  the  thing." 

Ellen  was  too  absorbed  to  question  the 
propriety  of  taking  Miss  Jane's  shawl,  nor 
did  she  notice  that  she  was  staining  the 
delicate  "  mat "  at  her  feet  when,  with  sol 
emn  gestures,  she  pressed  the  bottom  of 
the  oil-can  from  the  sewing-machine,  so 
that  they  might  offer  a  libation  of  oil. 
"We  must  sing  to  him,"  she  said,  her 
eyes  wide  with  excitement  ;  but  only 
Christian  words  suggested  themselves  to 
her.  "  Heathen  god  "  —  she  began,  "you 
—  you  —  shall  — 


78  The  Story  of  a  Child 

'  shall  reign  where'er  the  sun 
Doth  his  successive  journeys  run  ; 
Your  kingdom  stretch  from  shore  to  shore, 
Till  moons  shall  wax  and  wane  no  more.'  " 


Ellen's  eyes  were  vague  with  the  vision 
of  the  words.  She  saw  the  yellow  sun 
journeying  through  the  silent  sky  ;  she  saw 
water,  heaving  and  swelling,  gray  and 
misty,  lapping  the  shores  of  the  world ; 
she  saw  the  thin  and  melancholy  moon, 
curving  like  a  sickle  in  dun  clouds  — 
"  wax  and  wane  no  more  —  no  more  !  "  — 
an  end  of  all  things  —  emptiness  —  dark 
ness —  and  this  dreadful  god  unmoved  and 
smiling  at  the  desolation  !  She  began  to 
cry,  under  her  breath. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  said  Effie. 

"  Hush  !  "  Ellen  whispered.  "  He  '11 
hear  you ! " 

She  was  standing  before  Buddha,  wav 
ing  her  arms  over  her  head,  and  saying,  in 
a  voice  shaken  with  feeling,  the  first  long 
words  that  occurred  to  her — "  Justifica 
tion  —  sanctification  —  predestination  !  " 


The  Story  of  a  Child  jg 

She  did  not  know  what  they  meant,  but 
they  were  out  of  the  catechism,  and  so 
were  proper  to  say  to  a  god. 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  de 
manded  Effie.  "  Let 's  play  something 
else.  I  'm  tired  of  this.  Besides,  I  think 
it 's  wicked.  Oh,  there  's  aunty  !  Hide 
the  shawl." 

But  it  was  too  late.  Miss  Jane  came  in, 
kindly  curious,  to  see  that  the  two  little 
girls  were  having  a  happy  time.  The  half- 
burned  candles,  the  roses  on  Buddha's 
lap,  the  scattered  rice,  and  her  own  crape 
shawl,  crumpled  under  Effie's  feet,  made 
her  silent  for  a  moment  with  astonish 
ment. 

"We  were  playing  heathen,"  Effie  ex 
plained  hastily.  "Ellen  wanted  to." 

"Wrhere  did  you  get  my  shawl,  chil 
dren  ? "  said  Miss  Jane  indignantly. 

"  Ellen  said  we  had  to  have  a  mat ;  she 
put  it  there.  It 's  an  ugly  old  shawl,  any 
way ! " 

Miss  Jane   had   lifted   it  with   anxious 


8o  The  Story  of  a  Child 

hands.  "And  you  have  spotted  it  with 
something  !  Oh,  Ellen,  how  could  you  be 
so  naughty?" 

"I'm  so  sorry  —  I  —  didn't  know" 
Ellen  began  to  cry. 

"  There,  my  dear ! "  said  Miss  Jane, 
with  remorseful  forgiveness.  "  I  did  n't 
mean  to  be  cross,  my  child;  only — I  — 
I  —  value  it  very  much.  A  friend  of  mine 
gave  it  to  me,"  —  she  tried  to  comfort  the 
child ;  "  it  is  n't  any  value  in  itself,  but  a 
friend  of  mine  gave  it  to  me,  —  a  friend 
whom  I  have  not  seen  for  many  years. 
There,  dear,  don't  cry  ;  we  won't  say  any 
thing  more  about  it."  But  her  voice 
trembled. 

Effie  had  run  away,  glad  to  leave  re 
proof  or  reproach  to  Ellen,  and  glad  to 
escape  what  the  housemaid  called  "red 
ding  up  the  mess "  she  had  helped  to 
make  about  the  idol.  As  for  Ellen,  she 
went  home  very  soberly.  The  excitement 
of  "  making  believe  "  over,  the  hideous  fact 
of  idolatry  presented  itself  to  her  mind. 


The  Story  of  a  Child  81 

This  was  the  beginning  of  remorse  to 
Ellen,  that  most  intolerable  pain  of  life. 
The  thought  of  her  sin  began  to  lurk 
under  all  innocent  pleasures ;  ready  to 
spring  out  upon  her  like  some  terrible 
wild  beast  when  she  was  most  unconscious 
of  it,  or  most  forgetful.  When  she  read, 
or  worked,  or  played,  there  would  come, 
suddenly,  a  pang  in  the  breastbone,  and 
the  thought  of  the  god. 

"  Thou  shalt  not  make  unto  thyself  any 
graven  image,"  poor  little  Ellen  said  to 
herself  again  and  again  ;  "  thou  shalt  not 
bow  down  to  it  or  worship  it,"  and  then 
she  would  follow  over  and  over  one  line 
of  reasoning  which  traveled  in  a  circle 
through  justification  back  to  pain. 

"  If  the  heathen  think  it 's  right  to  bring 
rice  and  flowers  and  to  pray  to  him,  why,  it 
can't  be  wrong  for  them  to  do  it.  So  there 
is  no  need  to  confess  to  grandmother." 
She  would  draw  a  breath  of  relief  here,  and 
then  the  stab  would  come  :  "  But  I  'm  not 
a  heathen  !  I  did  n't  think  it  was  right." 


82  The  Story  of  a  Child 

The  accusation  and  excuse,  repeated  and 
repeated,  grooved  into  the  child's  mind. 
Once  she  had  a  shivering  glimpse  of  a 
possible  wreck  of  all  her  little  faith  ;  a 
vague  dull  pain  that  grew  into  the  ques 
tion  :  "How  do  we  know  we  are  right  ? 
We  can't  do  anything  more  than  think  so, 
and  that 's  what  the  heathen  do  !  "  But 
this  faded  almost  as  soon  as  it  came,  with 
the  reassurance,  —  "  Oh  yes  ;  the  Bible 
says  so,  and  so  does  grandmother/'  and  so 
far  as  faith  went  she  was  satisfied  —  but 
her  sin  remained.  Once,  in  a  passion  of 
pain,  she  burst  out  into  confession  to  Miss 
Jane,  who  flushed  a  little,  but  said,  "  Oh, 
Ellen,  dear,  never  mind ;  I  took  the  spots 
out." 

"  I  did  n't  mean  that,"  Ellen  whispered, 
hiding  her  face  on  that  kind  shoulder. 
"We  —  we  played  heathen,  you  know." 

"  Well,  dear  ? "  said  Miss  Jane  cheer 
fully. 

"  Was  it  —  was  it  —  very  wicked  ?  Oh, 
shall  I  go  to  hell?  Will  it  be  visited 


VI 


WHEN  Miss  Jane  Temple  interrupted 
the  worship  of  Buddha,  she  carried 
the  poor  little  stained  shawl  upstairs  to 
her  bedroom,  and  then  stood  and  looked  at 
it  with  eyes  that  were  blurred  with  tears. 
It  all  came  back  to  her  :  the  night  that 
Mr.  Tommy  had  brought  this  offering  and 
ventured  to  ask  her  acceptance  of  it.  She 
remembered  the  look  of  pride  and  relief 
that  came  into  his  face  when  she  thanked 
him  and  said  it  was  beautiful.  How  cruel 
it  was  that,  just  because  she  was  her 
brother's  sister  she  could  have  called  such 
a  look  into  his  face  !  It  cut  her  to  the 
heart  that  Mr.  Tommy  had  been  afraid  of 
her.  It  was  not  fair  that  he  should  have 
84 


The  Story  of  a  Child  6*5 

been  made  to  feel  she  did  not  care  for 
him  because  she  felt  herself  better  than 
he  ;  it  was  not  right  that  he  should  have 
thought  her  proud.  Proud  ?  Oh,  how 
happy  she  could  have  been  in  those  rooms 
above  the  apothecary  shop  if  only  duty 
allowed  her  to  think  of  her  own  happi 
ness!  Something  like  resentment  came 
into  Jane  Temple's  face.  Her  brother's 
family  might  have  permitted  her  this  one 
friend.  It  would  not  have  interfered  with 
her  services  to  them  !  With  a  trembling 
lip,  she  folded  her  shawl  and  laid  it  back 
in  the  bottom  drawer  of  her  bureau.  She 
took  some  rose  -  geranium  leaves  from  the 
bunch  of  flowers  on  her  stand  and  laid 
them  on  it. 

After  this  episode  of  the  god,  Effie  and 
Ellen  were  not  so  intimate  for  a  little 
while.  Ellen's  misgivings  lest  she  had 
committed  the  unpardonable  sin  made  her 
find  Effie  a  less  congenial  companion,  and 
Effie's  self-congratulation  on  having  es 
caped  the  scolding  she  deserved  made  her 


86  The  Story  of  a  Child 

more  cautious.  But  the  estrangement  did 
not  last  very  long,  and  the  two  children 
were  soon  confidential  again.  Effie  told 
Ellen  every  possible  family  matter,  and  it 
was  remarkable  how  many  family  matters 
she  knew.  She  repeated  again,  dramati 
cally,  the  story  of  Mr.  Tommy's  inter 
rupted  proposal,  although  Ellen,  with 
flaming  cheeks,  protested  that  she  did  n't 
believe  Miss  Jane  would  like  it,  and  she 
wished  Effie  would  rit!  She  was  elo 
quent  concerning  Dick's  extravagances  at 
college,  and  how  her  aunt  had  given  him 
money  to  pay  his  debts,  because  he  did  n't 
want  to  tell  his  father.  She  commented, 
too,  with  the  alarming  frankness  of  youth, 
on  her  father's  ill-temper.  "  Yes,"  said 
Effie,  "he  's  horrid  when  he's  cross,"  and 
then  went  on  to  comment  on  her  mo 
ther's  jealousy  of  "anybody  papa  likes; 
at  least,  of  any  ladies,"  she  ended  calmly, 
with  that  peculiar  and  discriminating  dis- 
eernment  which  seems  to  belong  to  chil 
dren  and  servants. 


ne  Story  of  a  Child  87 

But  for  the  most  part  the  children 
talked  of  the  hardships  of  Ellen's  life : 
that  her  hair  was  kept  short  ;  that  she 
had  to  go  to  bed  at  half  past  eight ;  that 
she  was  obliged  to  do  a  little  sewing  every 
day,  hem  a  frill  or  backstitch  a  long  seam. 
Effie,  with  fluent  use  of  adjectives,  pitied 
her  for  all  these  things,  but  she  pitied  her 
most  of  all  because,  on  Mondays  and  Tues 
days,  Ellen  was  obliged  to  make  her  own 
bed,  and  dust  and  tidy  her  little  bedroom. 

"Well,"  cried  Effie,  when  this  cruel  fact 
had  been  revealed  to  her,  "  before  I  'd  be 
a  servant  girl !  "  Ellen  had  never  thought 
of  it  in  that  way  before ;  it  had  only  been 
"helping."  So,  at  least,  she  had  been 
told.  It  had  not  seemed  proper  to  Mrs. 
Dale  to  explain  that  her  real  reason  for 
giving  the  child  these  little  tasks  was  to 
teach  her  that  any  work  was  fitting  for  a 
lady  that  could  be  done  with  the  fine,  old- 
fashioned  delicacy  which  the  women  of 
Old  Chester  brought  to  every  duty. 

But  Effie  left  no  doubt  in  Ellen's  mind, 


88  The  Story  of  a  Child 

that  she  had  been  "  imposed  upon,"  and 
was  doing  a  servant's  work  !  Once,  very 
soon  after  her  eyes  had  been  opened  to 
this,  Ellen  confided  her  wrongs  to  Lyclia, 
but  was  met  with  blank  wonder,  which 
she  was  quick  to  resent  as  "  airs ; "  and 
the  other  child's  protest,  "  If  mother 
thinks  it  right,  Ellen,  I  guess  it  is,"  only 
made  her  quarrel  with  Lydia,  and  "not 
speak"  for  several  days.  She  was  alert 
to  discover  further  "impositions,"  —  and 
as  such  a  search  is  always  rewarded,  she 
found  many,  and  was  in  a  chronic  state  of 
injured  feelings,  a  state  which  expressed 
itself  by  sullen  looks  and  neglect  of  many 
small  and  pleasant  duties ;  she  grew  irri 
table,  with  the  constant  effort  to  "  stand 
up  for  her  rights."  "  I  don't  know  what's 
the  matter  with  our  Ellen,"  Betsey  sighed, 
more  than  once  ;  "  she  's  awful  good, 
but  she's  that  contrary!"  The  "good 
ness  "  had  reference  only  to  Ellen's  de 
votions,  which  at  this  time  were  very 
marked.  Betsey  had  never  been  obliged 


The  Story  of  a  Child  89 

to  wait  so  long  with  the  bedroom  candle, 
while  Ellen  said  her  prayers.  This  was 
partly  for  the  relief  of  complaining  to  her 
Maker,  partly,  because  she  knew  she  was 
not  behaving  well,  and  was  constrained  to 
balance  her  naughtiness  by  a  little  extra 
religion,  and  partly  because,  most  often 
at  night,  the  thought  of  her  idolatry  as 
sailed  her,  and  urged  upon  her  works  of 
supererogation  in  the  form  of  prayers  and 
promises.  No  doubt  much  of  her  naughti 
ness  grew  out  of  these  religious  impulses 
which  satisfied  themselves  in  visions  of 
good  deeds  and  never  crystallized  into 
anything  so  commonplace  as  obedience. 
She  was  constantly  planning  great  self- 
sacrifices  ;  heroic  bravery,  sublime  devo 
tion.  Such  dreams  were  very  concrete : 
as,  for  instance,  what  her  conduct  would 
be  if  the  house  were  on  fire  ;  she  would 
rush  into  the  flames,  and  save — every 
body  !  She  gave  herself  up  to  such  visions 
one  Monday  morning ;  she  had  left  the 
breakfast-room  and  gathered  some  posies 


90  The  Story  of  a  Child 

for  the  little  blue  jug  that  stood  on  her 
dressing-table,  and  then,  forgetting  her 
work  in  her  bedroom,  stopped,  and  got 
into  the  swing  under  the  front  porch. 
Ellen  was  very  fond  of  this  latticed  in- 
closure  under  the  high  porch,  from  the 
rafters  of  which  hung  the  little  swing,  that 
creaked  with  a  dry  and  dusty  rhythm  when 
started  by  her  foot ;  perhaps  part  of  its 
charm  was  a  lack  of  the  austere  order  of 
the  rest  of  Mrs.  Dale's  household.  It  still 
bore  the  traces  of  Eben  Dale's  light- 
hearted  and  inconsequent  life ;  under  the 
rafters  above  the  swing  were  his  long 
bamboo  fishing  rods,  still  with  the  lines 
wound  in  careful  spirals  from  the  quiver 
ing  ends  to  the  stout,  silver-clasped  han 
dles.  As  Ellen  swung  back  and  forth, 
they  shook  and  trembled,  as  they  had  done, 
no  doubt  long  ago,  on  some  green  bank 
beside  a  trout  pool.  A  loop  of  line  from 
a  broken  reel  hung  just  above  the  child's 
eyes,  and  through  it,  in  delicious  abstrac 
tion  of  great  purposes,  she  looked  out, 


Tbe  Story  of  a  Child  97 

across  the  sunshine  on  the  side  lawn,  at 
the  watering-trough  in  the  stable  yard,  and 
at  the  pigeons  strutting  and  cooing  on  the 
ridge-pole  of  the  barn. 

She  was  saying  to  herself,  with  a 
swelling  heart,  "  Suppose  Betsey  Thomas 
should  have  small-pox?"  And  then  she 
went  on  to  reflect  upon  how  tenderly  she 
would  nurse  her,  how  bravely,  even  though 
her  grandmother  and  all  her  friends  should 
implore  her  not  to  run  such  a  risk.  Ah, 
how  they  would  appreciate  her  when  they 
saw  how  noble  she  was  !  Very  likely  she 
should  catch  the  dreadful  disease,  and  lie 
for  days  between  life  and  death ;  and  then 
how  saintly  she  would  be,  what  hymns  she 
would  repeat,  what  appropriate  texts  !  — 

"  *  It  is  not  death  to  die,'  " 

quoted  Ellen,  her  eyes  brimming  with  de 
lightful  melancholy,  and  curling  her  arms 
about  the  ropes  of  the  swing,  so  that  she 
leaned  sideways,  comfortably. 

"  It  is  not  death  to  die, 
To  leave  the  weary  road, 
To  join  the  brotherhood  on  high  "  — 


92  The  Story  of  a  Child 

"  I  'd  say  that,"  she  thought,  very  sor 
rowfully.  But  when  she  recovered  (on  the 
whole,  she  thought  she  should  recover) 
she  would  be  very  beautiful ;  not  a  single 
scar  would  mar  her  face ;  and  how  Betsey 
Thomas  would  love  her  ! 

She  paused  in  planning  her  saintly  re 
venge  long  enough  to  look  at  the  diamonds 
of  sunlight  falling  through  the  lattice,  and 
lying  on  the  black,  hard  earth  of  the  floor  ; 
how  much  nicer  it  was  here,  under  the 
porch,  than  in  the  parlor !  There  were 
garden  tools  in  the  corners,  and  on  one 
side  of  her  playroom,  like  a  long  red 
cornucopia  encrusted  with  crumbling 
earth,  were  flower  pots  of  lessening  sizes 
fitted  into  each  other.  Ellen  could  scrawl 
a  large  E  on  the  dusty  top  of  an  old  chest 
of  drawers  that  stood  against  the  wall  of 
the  house  ;  it  had  scarcely  been  touched 
since  Dr.  Dale  had  put  his  flies  away,  after 
his  last  fishing  trip.  Some  of  the  drawers 
were  half  open,  and  there  were  packets  of 
•flower  seeds  scattered  about  in  them,  and 


The  Story  of  a  Child  93 

one  or  two  books  in  yellow  paper  covers, 
dog-eared  and  torn.  Ellen  had  looked  at 
them  with  a  view  to  improving  her  mind 
by  reading  some  of  grandpapa's  wise 
books  ;  but  alas,  they  were  in  French,  so 
that  aspiration  had  been  checked.  On  top 
of  the  chest  was  a  china  bowl  half  full  of 
water  ;  Ellen  had  coiled  a  dozen  horsehairs 
in  it,  and  was  waiting  to  see  them  turn 
into  snakes ;  she  kept  her  paper  dolls 
in  an  old  cupboard  fastened  above  it  upon 
the  wall ;  the  sagging  doors  and  rattling 
shelves  could  not  have  given  the  tissue 
ladies  a  sense  of  security,  but  Ellen  liked 
to  think  that  they  were  sheltered  there, 
when  she  lay  in  her  little  bed  and  heard 
the  wind  blow,  and  caught  the  murmur 
ing  complaint  of  the  giant  in  the  locust- 
trees.  The  dolls,  she  saw  fit  to  say,  were  in 
a  fort,  and  they  were  in  great  terror  lest 
one  of  the  pythons  coiled  in  the  white  china 
tank  should  crawl  out,  and  up  to  their  lit 
tle  shelter,  and  open  his  horrible  jaws  and 
hiss  at  them !  Ellen  shivered  for  very 


94  The  Story  of  a  Child 

horror  of  the  situation  —  but  did  not  abate 
her  care  for  the  horsehairs,  nor  put  a  bet 
ter  fastening  on  the  cupboard  door.  She 
liked  to  think  that  the  beat  of  wind  or  rain 
was  the  assault  of  pirates  upon  the  unhappy 
paper  ladies,  and  the  idea  of  their  distress 
when  the  door  banged  gave  her  all  the  ex 
hilaration  of  fright.  "  If  pirates  were  to 
break  into  our  house,"  said  Ellen,  her  foot 
tapping  a  diamond  of  sunshine  every  time 
she  swung  forward,  "  I  would  say,  '  Sir, 
kill  me,  but  save  grandmother  —  save  ' "  — 
But  at  that  moment  Betsey  Thomas 
came  hurrying  out  to  look  for  her.  Betsey 
was  busy  and  not  in  the  best  temper ;  her 
patience  had  been  sorely  tried  that  morn 
ing,  because  Ellen  had  seen  fit  to  pour 
water  on  the  floor  when  she  had  been 
dressing  her,  for  the  purpose  of  discover 
ing  whether  it  would  run  under  her  in 
step.  "  If  it  does,"  said  Ellen,  holding  up 
her  skirts,  and  dabbling  her  little  bare 
foot  in  the  water,  "  it  shows  I  'm  very  aris 
tocratic,  Betsey,  and  would  have  had  my 


The  Story  of  a  Child  95 

head  cut  off  in  the  French  Revolution." 
Betsey  had  been  most  unsympathetic,  and 
there  had  been  a  tussle,  followed  by  a 
truce,  and  now  the  maid  would  rather 
have  done  Ellen's  work  herself  than  get 
into  any  discussion  with  her.  But  Mrs. 
Dale  had  bidden  her  remind  Ellen  that 
her  bed  was  not  made,  and  it  was  after 
nine. 

Ellen,  with  a  very  red  face,  jumped  out 
of  the  swing,  "  I  just  wish  you  'd  do  your 
work  yourself,  Betsey  Thomas,  so  there  !  " 
she  said. 

Betsey  looked  at  her  soberly.  "  Ellen, 
you  ought  n't  to  talk  that  way,  'deed  you 
ought  n't  ;  't  ain't  right." 

"  Well,  it  is  n't  your  place  to  tell  me 
what  I  ought  to  do,  anyhow,"  Ellen  an 
swered. 

The  chambermaid  put  her  red  arms 
akimbo  on  her  hips  and  gazed  at  Ellen 
with  real  concern.  She  was  a  pleasant- 
looking  maid  -  servant,  with  an  honest 
Welsh  face  and  curly  red-brown  hair ;  she 


g6  The  Story  of  a  Child 

wore  a  brown  calico  gown  and  a  long  blue 
apron  with  a  bib  pinned  up  over  her  ample 
bosom.  "  I  don't  know  what  's  the  matter 
with  you,  these  days,  Ellen,"  she  said. 
"  Come,  now ;  be  a  good  girl,  and  do  your 
work  nice,  and  please  your  grandmother." 

Ellen  made  no  answer,  but  she  followed 
the  maid  upstairs.  "  You  know  well 
enough,  Ellen,  you  ain't  behavin'  as  you 
ought,  nowadays,"  Betsey  went  on.  "  You 
ought  to  think  what  the  Good  Man  likes 
little  girls  to  be.  My!  I  never  see  any 
little  girl  so  sassy  as  you  !  " 

"Will  you  be  quiet,  Betsey  Thomas  ?" 
said  Ellen,  turning  suddenly  upon  her. 

"  Why,  Ellen  Dale  !  "  cried  Betsey, 
dropping  admonition,  in  personal  affront ; 
"  you  're  real  impudent.  I  've  a  good  mind 
to  tell  your  grandmother!" 

Ellen's  face  was  white.  "  You  are  a  low, 
mean,  miserable,  lazy  woman,"  she  said  in 
a  high,  quivering  voice,  "and  if  you  speak 
another  word  more  to  me  I  '11  kill  you  !  " 

This   was    so    awful    that    Betsey   was 


The  Story  of  a  Child  97 

shocked  into  real  dismay.  "  Ellen,  I  '11 
have  to  tell  your  grandmother,"  she  said 
reluctantly. 

"I  don't  care!"  cried  Ellen.  She 
stamped  her  foot,  stood  trembling,  flew  at 
Betsey  and  struck  her  with  all  her  little 
might,  and  then  dropped  sobbing  upon  the 
floor. 

Betsey  was  appalled,  but  angry  also. 
She  turned,  and  hurried  out  of  the  room 
to  find  Mrs.  Dale. 

"  Oh,  ma'am,"  she  said,  coming  breath 
lessly  into  the  dining-room,  "  Ellen  is 
acting  awful !  She  beat  and  beat  me, 
ma'am !  She  acted  like  as  if  she  was 
possessed  !  " 

Mrs.  Dale  was  sitting  at  the  head  of 
the  long  table  with  as  much  stateliness  as 
though  it  were  surrounded  by  guests,  in 
stead  of  merely  holding  a  big  basin  of  hot 
water,  a  mop,  and  glass  towels.  "  Tell  me 
just  what  Ellen  has  done,"  she  said  briefly. 
And  then  listened  to  the  agitated  com 
plaint,  but  made  no  comment.  "  You  may 


9#  The  Story  of  a  Child 

go  now,"  she  said,  and  proceeded  calmly 
to  wipe  the  teaspoons ;  she  was  in  no 
haste  to  go  upstairs.  She  knew  that  si 
lence  and  reflection  would  be  very  alarm 
ing  to  Ellen. 

Ellen,  sobbing  on  the  floor,  was  strain 
ing  her  ears  for  her  grandmother's  step. 
By  and  by  the  waiting  grew  dreadful; 
she  stopped  crying  and  sat  up,  pushing 
her  hair  back  from  her  eyes.  The  house 
was  very  silent.  It  seemed  to  the  child  as 
though  everything  held  its  breath  to  hear 
the  reproof  which  was  coming.  At  last 
she  felt  she  could  not  bear  it  any  longer, 
and  she  crept  out  into  the  entry  and 
looked  over  the  balustrade  down  into  the 
wide  hall.  The  front  door  was  open,  and 
she  could  see  the  hot,  bright  garden. 
Stretched  out  in  a  strip  of  sunshine  that 
fell  across  the  threshold  into  the  hall  was 
Rip,  the  red  setter  ;  his  glossy  side  was 
stirred  by  his  deep  breathing,  and  once 
a  paw  twitched,  as  though  he  were  run 
ning  in  some  pleasant  dream.  Her  grand- 


Tbe  Story  of  a  Child  99 

mother's  work-table  was  beside  the  long 
sofa,  which  stood  between  the  dining- 
room  and  library  doors ;  there  was  some 
knitting  on  the  table,  and  a  book  with 
Mrs.  Dale's  gold  spectacles  across  an  open 
page,  and  one  of  Ellen's  white  aprons, 
waiting  to  be  mended.  The  child  felt 
a  quick  repentance.  How  naughty  she 
had  been ;  how  good  her  grandmother 
always  was ;  and  even  Betsey  Thomas 
was  sometimes  kind !  She  would  go 
downstairs  and  ask  to  be  forgiven  ;  she 
would  tell  Betsey  she  was  sorry ;  she 
would  say —  But  at  that  moment,  run 
ning  lightly  up  the  front  steps  came  Effie 
Temple.  Rip,  startled  at  the  sound,  rose, 
yawning  and  stretching,  but  Effie  did  not 
notice  him.  She  had  seen  Ellen,  and 
dashed  at  once  upstairs. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  she  de 
manded.  "  You  have  been  crying  !  Why, 
Nellie,  what  's  the  matter  ?  " 

Ellen  felt  the  tears  stinging  again,  and 
all  her  anger  came  back  with  a  rush. 


/oo  The  Story  of  a  Child 

"Come  into  my  room,"  she  whispered, 
and  drew  the  eager  Effie  into  her  bed 
room.  "Oh,  Effie,  it's  awful!"  she  said 
in  a  trembling  voice. 

"  What 's  awful  ? " 

"  I  've  had  such  a  time  with  Betsey 
Thomas;  she  —  she — oh,  she  talked  to 
me  ! "  Ellen  caught  her  breath  in  a  sob. 
She  did  not  know  whether  she  was  more 
angry  at  Betsey,  or  frightened  at  the 
prospect  of  the  interview  with  her  grand 
mother. 

"  Oh,  is  that  all  ? "  cried  Effie.  "  I  hope 
you  talked  back  to  her  ?  " 

And  Ellen  straightway  poured  out  the 
whole  story.  As  she  talked  her  courage 
returned,  and  her  anger  burned  more 
fiercely.  Effie,  sitting  on  the  bed  beside 
her,  interrupted  her  with  exclamations  of 
pity  and  indignation,  and  when  she  had 
quite  finished  was  ready  with  advice. 
"  I  'd  make  that  girl  get  down  on  her 
knees  and  beg  my  pardon,"  she  said  shrilly. 
"  Gracious,  I  wish  you  had  some  spirit, 
Nellie  ! " 


The  Story  of  a  Child  roi 

"  Beg  my  pardon  ?  "  said  Ellen.  "  Why, 
I" —  She  was  ashamed  to  finish  the 
sentence. 

"  Of  course  ;  and  if  she  should  say  she 
wouldn't — well,  then  I  know  what  I 
should  do." 

"  What  ? "  asked  Ellen  faintly. 

Effie  leaned  towards  her  and  whispered 
something  in  her  ear. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Ellen. 


VII 


FOR   a   moment   after   Effie's   whisper 
the    two    children   looked    at    each 
other  in  guilty  silence. 

"  Oh,  would  you,  really  ?  "  Ellen  said  at 
last,  under  her  breath  ;  but  before  Effie 
could  answer,  the  door  opened  and  Mrs. 
Dale  entered.  A  quick  displeasure  came 
into  her  face  at  the  sight  of  Ellen's  guest, 
but  she  only  said  gravely,  "Good-morning, 
Euphemia,"  and  looked  to  see  the  child 
rise,  as  Ellen  had  done  ;  but  Effie,  as  she 
sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  swinging  her 
foot  to  and  fro  and  playing  with  her  rings, 
only  nodded,  with  a  sheepish  look,  and 
said,  "  Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Dale  ? " 

Mrs.  Dale  put  on  her  glasses  and  looked 

102 


The  Story  of  a  Child  103 

at  her.  "  Euphemia,"  —  Ellen  caught  her 
breath  at  the  solemnity  of  the  tone,  —  "I 
wish  to  talk  with  Ellen,  so  must  ask  you 
to  leave  us." 

"All  right,"  said  Effie.  She  rose  and 
shook  her  skirt,  which  had  wrinkled  a 
little,  and  gave  a  careless  glance  into  the 
mirror  as  she  put  on  her  hat.  "  Mrs. 
Dale,  may  Ellen  come  over  and  take  tea 
with  me  to-night  ?  Mamma  said  I  might 
ask  her,"  she  added  impatiently,  having 
learned  that  such  reference  to  her  mother 
was  a  necessary  formality  in  Old  Chester. 

"No." 

"  Oh,  please  ?  "  Effie  teased,  but  was 
dismissed  with  a  decision  which  ignored 
her  coaxing. 

Ellen's  face  grew  red  and  sullen  as 
Effie  left  the  room,  and  she  stared  at  the 
carpet  that  she  might  not  see  her  grand 
mother. 

"  Now,  Ellen,  tell  me  what  this  means  ?  " 

"  What  what  means  ? "  the  little  girl  said 
in  a  low  voice,  still  looking  at  the  carpet. 


104  The  Story  of  a  Child 

"  I  am  very  much  grieved,  Ellen,"  Mrs. 
Dale  said,  not  noticing  the  question. 

No  response. 

"  Betsey  Thomas  tells  me  that  when  she 
spoke  to  you  about  putting  your  room  in 
order  you  grew  very  angry,  and  —  struck 
her !  Ellen,  no  little  girl  could  do  such  a 
thing,  unless  she  had  "  —  Mrs.  Dale  spoke 
very  solemnly  —  "  unless  she  had  the  feel 
ing  of  murder  in  her  heart.  Suppose  you 
had  had  a  knife  in  your  hand  when  you 
struck  Betsey  ?  you  might  have  killed  her ! 
You  did  not  have  a  knife,  but  you  had  the 
feeling  in  your  soul.  Oh,  Ellen,  I  hope 
you  will  ask  your  Heavenly  Father  to  give 
you  a  better  heart." 

Ellen  did  not  reply  ;  her  chin  quivered, 
and  she  felt  as  though  something  was  beat 
ing  up  in  her  throat ;  but  her  silence  was 
not  repentance ;  it  was  embarrassment  at 
this  talk  about  her  "heart,"  and  her  Heav 
enly  Father. 

Mrs.  Dale  sighed ;  she  did  not  know 
what  to  say  next.  She  had  been  prepared 


The  Story  of  a  Child  105 

for  the  fluent  and  fatiguing  excuses  of  an 
active"  imagination,  and  Ellen's  silence  con 
fused  her  ;  to  show  affection  in  such  a 
crisis  did  not  occur  to  her ;  she  looked 
at  the  stubborn  little  face,  and  wondered 
how  the  child  could  be  so  hard.  "  She  does 
not  show  a  trace  of  feeling ! "  thought 
Mrs.  Dale,  and  sighed.  She  felt  as  though 
she  stood  outside  this  one  heart  in  all  the 
world  that  belonged  to  her,  and  sought  an 
entrance  in  vain.  There  was  a  wistful  dis 
appointment  behind  the  stern  justice  in 
her  eyes.  "  Why  have  I  never  gained  her 
love  ?  "  she  thought ;  but  all  she  said  was 
that  Ellen  must  spend  the  rest  of  the  day 
in  her  room  ;  at  five  o'clock,  if  penitent, 
she  might  come  downstairs  and  ask  for 
giveness.  ("  Such  hardness  can  be  con 
quered  only  by  severity,"  Mrs.  Dale  was 
thinking  sadly.)  "  I  hope,"  she  ended, 
"  that  you  will  remember  what  I  have 
said  about  the  sin  of  anger;  and  that  you 
may  remember  it,  I  have  made  out  for 
you  a  list  of  verses  in  the  Bible  which 


w6  The  Story  of  a  Child 

speak  of  anger  and  passion.  You  will 
look  them  out  during  the  day,  commit 
them  to  memory,  and  repeat  them  to  me 
when  you  come  downstairs  at  five." 

She  had  written  the  references  on  a  slip 
of  paper,  and  putting  it  down  on  the  white 
work-table,  left  the  room  without  another 
look  at  Ellen. 

She  was  very  much  troubled.  But  it 
never  occurred  to  her  to  prick  the  bubble 
of  the  child's  naughtiness  by  treating  the 
matter  lightly.  She  gave  to  the  imagina 
tion  of  a  foolish  child  the  deference  of 
conscientious  effort,  —  she  took  the  situ 
ation  seriously.  That  Ellen  might  find 
it  interesting,  never  occurred  to  her,  for 
Mrs.  Dale  could  no  more  have  been  the 
atrical  than  she  could  have  been  flippant. 
"I  am  too  old,"  she  thought,  with  the 
painful  and  pathetic  humility  of  age, 
"  too  old  to  manage  children  ;  and  I 
cannot  make  her  love  me."  Her  mouth 
looked  stern  and  hard.  "  She  is  like  him" 
she  thought ;  "  I  never  understood  him. 


The  Story  of  a  Child  ioj 

The  fault  must  be  mine,  somehow."  Her 
glasses  were  so  dim  she  did  not  see  that 
some  one  was  waiting  for  her  in  the  hall, 
until  she  heard  a  voice  say,  "Good-morn 
ing,  dear  Mrs.  Dale,"  and  found  Miss  Jane 
Temple  ready  to  take  her  hand  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs. 

Now,  Miss  Jane  Temple  had  come  to 
see  Mrs.  Dale  with  a  purpose  which  had 
only  taken  definite  form  that  day,  although 
it  had  been  smouldering  in  her  heart  for 
many  weeks  ;  she  had  gone  that  morning 
down  into  the  village  upon  an  errand, 
and  had  stopped  absently  at  the  little  gate 
that  shut  Mr.  Tommy  Dove's  garden  away 
from  the  dusty  street.  The  garden  was 
full  of  the  sweet  confusion  of  flowers 
which  had  been  watched  and  tended  for 
nearly  a  generation,  and  then  suddenly 
left  to  untrained  and  untrammeled  liberty. 
There  were  not  many  weeds,  unless  the 
Johnny  -  jump-ups,  growing  outside  the 
borders,  could  be  called  weeds  ;  or  the  por- 
tulaca,  which  had  sown  itself  in  the  grass 


io8  The  Story  of  a  Child 

from  the  round  bed  that  lay  below  the 
shop  window,  —  half  in  sunshine,  blazing 
with  crimson  cups,  and  half  in  shadow, 
with  tightly  shut  and  shining  buds.  White 
petunias  flared  broadly  between  the  flag 
stones  of  the  path,  and  morning-glories 
were  braided  among  the  prickly  branches 
of  the  moss-rose  ;  the  friendly  perennials 
were  more  decorous,  and  kept  their  old 
places  ;  the  queen-of-the-meadow  still  lifted 
her  powdery  crown,  close  to  the  gate;  and 
the  hollyhocks  and  bleeding  heart  and 
peonies  blossomed,  as  they  had  blossomed 
on  the  same  spot,  fifty  years  before. 

Miss  Jane  Temple,  leaning  on  the  gate, 
remembered  how  she  had  stopped  there 
one  morning,  four  years  ago,  just  after 
old  Mrs.  Dove's  death,  to  tell  Mr.  Tommy 
she  was  sorry  for  his  grief.  She  remem 
bered  that  she  had  sat  on  the  broad  door- 
stone,  which  was  warm  with  sunshine,  and 
they  had  talked  of  many  things.  Effte 
was  with  her,  and  the  little  girl's  lip 
had  curled  in  contemptuous  amusement 


The  Story  of  a  Child  log 

when  Mr.  Tommy  tried  to  entertain  her. 
The  color  came  into  Miss  Jane's  cheek  as 
she  thought  of  the  child's  rudeness,  and 
then  came  the  remembrance  of  that  other 
rudeness  to  Mr.  Dove,  on  the  night  when 
he  had  tried  to  tell  her  that  he  "  cared," 
—  the  rudeness  of  her  brother  who,  enter 
ing  in  the  midst  of  those  gentle,  stumbling 
words,  dismissed  the  apothecary  with  cour 
teous  contempt.  She  remembered  how  Mr. 
Tommy  dashed  into  the  darkness,  leaving 
his  sentence  unfinished  and  never  coming 
back  again,  even  to  learn  that,  although 
she  would  not  leave  her  brother's  family, 
she  too  "  cared."  At  first  there  had  been 
a  faint  reproach  in  her  heart  because  he 
did  not  come  back,  but  she  had  very  soon 
understood  it :  he  wanted  to  spare  her  the 
sight  of  his  mortification.  She  never  sup 
posed  that  disappointed  love  could  long 
prey  upon  him.  Miss  Jane  Temple  had  had 
snubs  enough  in  her  life  to  know  that  mor 
tification  leaves  a  pang  more  lasting  than 
the  serpent's  tooth,  or  than  disappointed 
love. 


no  The  Story  of  a  Child 

But  she  wished  that  he  would  come 
back  to  this  neglected  garden,  this  quiet, 
shabby  house  that  seemed  shrinking  be 
hind  its  lilac  and  sweet-brier  bushes.  She 
wished  she  knew  where  he  was.  In  a 
dozen  timid  ways  she  had  tried  to  find 
out,  rather  by  suggesting  the  question 
than  by  any  direct  inquiry.  And  yet, 
why  should  she  not  inquire  ?  Yes,  a  ques 
tion,  boldly  put,  need  not  betray  her,  and 
her  heart  leaped  at  the  very  thought  of 
hearing  about  him. 

The  mortar  and  pestle  which  hung 
above  the  shop  door,  and  had  long  ago 
parted  with  any  gilding  they  had  pos 
sessed,  creaked  in  a  puff  of  wind.  "  I 
will  find  out ! "  she  said,  and  pushed  open 
the  gate  and  went  across  the  deep  tangle 
of  the  grass  to  the  big  thorny  bush  of 
yellow  Persian  roses.  She  picked  one, 
resolution  growing  in  her  face ;  and  then 
she  went  at  once  up  the  hill  to  Mrs.  Dale's 
house.  "  Mrs.  Dale  will  tell  me,"  she  said 
to  herself. 


The  Story  of  a  Child  1 1 1 

But  when  the  two  ladies  sat  down  by  the 
work-table  in  the  open  hall,  and  Mrs.  Dale, 
with  a  little  sigh,  took  up  Ellen's  apron 
to  mend,  Miss  Jane  began  to  talk  of  any 
thing  and  anybody  but  Mr.  Tommy  Dove  ; 
the  weather,  first,  and  the  gardener's 
anxiety  about  the  drought ;  her  sister-in- 
law's  health,  and  her  own  regret  that  since 
the  death  of  old  Dr.  King  there  had  been 
only  his  son,  a  young  boy  of  twenty  eight 
or  nine,  to  minister  to  the  physical  ills  of 
Old  Chester. 

"  He  can't  help  being  young,  I  know," 
said  Miss  Jane,  "  but  I  am  sure  I  hope  my 
sister  will  not  have  to  consult  him  this 
summer.  I  suppose  young  doctors  must 
have  some  patients  to  practice  on,  or  else 
they  would  never  get  experience,  but  I 
don't  want  him  to  practice  on  sister." 

Mrs.  Dale  agreed  with  her,  but  in  the 
tone  of  one  who  is  liberal  enough  to  put 
up  with  a  necessity.  "  They  've  got  to  be 
young,  some  time,"  she  said. 

"I  suppose  so,"  Jane  Temple  admitted  ; 


H2  The  Story  of  a  Child 

"  but  really,  even  I  know  more  about 
some  things,  chicken  -  pox,  for  instance, 
than  Willie  does.  When  Effie  had  it,  I 
knew  just  what  to  do,  and  I  am  sure  Wil 
lie  had  to  ask  his  mother  before  he  dared 
prescribe.  And  then,  in  preparing  medi 
cine,  a  young  man  is  apt  to  be  careless. 
I  wish  some  more  experienced  person " 

—  Miss  Jane's  voice  was  not  quite  even 

—  "some    more   experienced   person    had 
charge  of  the  drugs." 

Mrs.  Dale  glanced  at  her  over  her  spec 
tacles,  keenly.  "  Indeed,  dear  Jane,  you 
are  needlessly  concerned  ;  Willie  is  really 
careful,  and  beside,  his  dispensing  the 
medicines  is  only  a  temporary  arrange 
ment.  Tommy  Dove  is  our  apothecary 
usually,  and  he  is  old  enough,  I  am  sure. 
He  is  absent  just  now,  but  he  is  a  most 
capable  person.  Of  course,  Old  Chester 
would  not  encourage  any  one  who  was 
not  capable." 

Miss  Jane  bent  down  to  pat  Rip's  red- 
brown  head.  "  Yes,  he  is  capable  ;  but  — 


The  Story  of  a  Child  113 

as  you  say,  he  is  not  here  this  summer  ? 
I  noticed,  the  first  time  that  I  went  down 
to  the  village,  that  his  house  was  shut  up, 
and  all  his  pretty  garden  so  neglected ; 
it  seemed  so  strange  !  I  —  I  wondered 
where  —  I  should  say  why  —  I  mean 
where,  he  had  gone  ? " 

She  stroked  Rip's  ears  rapidly,  the  color 
fluttering  into  her  face. 

"  Dear  me !  one  would  think  Jane  was 
interested ! "  Mrs.  Dale  said  to  herself  ; 
but  aloud  she  only  observed  that  she  was 
not  surprised  that  her  companion  thought 
Mr.  Tommy's  conduct  strange.  "  In  spite 
of  his  years,  and  of  the  influences  about 
him  —  though  sometimes  I  think  influ 
ences  amount  to  very  little,"  said  Mrs. 
Dale,  the  thought  of  Ellen  heavy  upon 
her  heart,  —  "  in  spite  of  everything,  Mr. 
Tommy's  conduct  shows,  I  fear,  an  ill-regu 
lated  mind." 

"  Does  it,  indeed,  ma'am  ?  "  Miss  Jane 
asked  tremulously.  "  I  always  thought 
him  most  estimable,  —  though  I  have  been 
away  so  much,"  she  ended  weakly. 


The  Story  of  a  Child 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Dale,  putting  down  the 
little  white  apron  and  adjusting  her  spec 
tacles,  "  he  is,  of  course,  a  very  estima 
ble  person  in  his  walk  of  life.  But,  my 
dear  Jane,  his  leaving  Old  Chester  as  he 
did  shows  a  weak  character."  She  was 
very  grave.  "  This  is  really  very  serious," 
she  thought ;  "  poor  foolish  girl !  " 

"  I  had  —  I  have  —  a  great  respect  for 
Mr.  Dove,"  Miss  Temple  said. 

"  Every  one  has,"  Mrs.  Dale  agreed, 
resenting  an  unspoken  reproach.  "  In 
deed,  I  have  sometimes  thought  I  would 
invite  him  to  tea."  Miss  Jane  drew  in  her 
breath,  as  if  something  hurt  her.  "He 
did  the  same  thing  about  four  years  ago," 
Mrs.  Dale  went  on.  "  Let  me  see —  why, 
it  was  the  summer  you  were  here.  He 
disappeared  without  a  word  to  anybody  ; 
such  a  sensational,  foolish  thing  to  do. 
Don't  you  remember  ?  " 

"  I  remember,"  said  Miss  Jane  faintly. 

"  I  heard,"  Mrs.  Dale  continued,  "  that 
he  was  in  Philadelphia  this  summer.  I  * 


The  Story  of  a  Child  7/5 

don't  know  what  he  is  doing.  But  even 
to  see  as  little  of  the  world  as  Philadel 
phia  is  good  for  Mr.  Tommy." 

"  Yes." 

"  No  doubt  he  will  come  back  some 
time,  and  then  it  will  be  our  duty  to  let 
him  see  that  we  do  not  approve  of  him. 
Still,  if  he  will  settle  down  and  marry  a 
—  a  suitable  person  you  know,  no  doubt 
his  conduct  will  be  overlooked  in  time. 
But  I  doubt  if  we  can  have  quite  the  con 
fidence  in  him  that  we  had,  —  eccentricity 
is  more  dangerous  than  mere  youth  !  " 

"  He  must  have  had  good  reasons,"  said 
Jane  Temple  ;  "  I  am  sure  he  must ! "  It 
occurred  to  her  that  she  was  betraying 
herself,  but  that  did  not  matter.  "I  —  I 
knew  Mr.  Dove  quite  well,  and  I  —  trust 
his  judgment,  absolutely,"  she  said,  with 
emphasis,  for  anger  had  come  to  her  aid. 

"You  are  too  kind,  dear  Jane,"  said 
Mrs.  Dale.  She  was  sincerely  troubled. 
"Dear!  dear!"  she  said  to  herself;  "  to 
think  that  Jane  Temple  can  be  so  weak !  " 


n  6  The  Story  of  a  Child 

Miss  Temple's  indignation  brought  a 
fine  glow  into  her  cheek  ;  her  eyes  shone  ; 
she  began  to  feel  a  warmth  about  her 
heart  that  meant  happiness,  although  she 
did  not  know  it.  She  was  defending  him  ; 
how  sweet  it  was  to  defend  him  !  Never 
mind  if  she  should  not  see  him  again,  if 
he  never  knew  that  she  "  cared."  She 
did  care,  and  that  was  happiness  enough. 
Mrs.  Dale's  condescension  roused  her  to 
sudden  self-knowledge.  "  I  have  a  right 
to  my  own  life,"  she  thought. 

"  I  think  I  must  go  now,"  she  said 
stiffly.  She  felt  she  must  be  alone  to 
think  this  thing  out,  and  decide  what  to 
do  ;  for,  without  reasoning  about  it,  she 
knew  she  was  going  to  do  something  to 
make  amends  to  this  man,  who  had  given 
up  his  home  for  her  sake.  Then,  with  an 
effort  to  seem  at  ease,  she  added,  "  I  met 
Effie,  as  I  came  over,  and  she  told  me  El 
len  could  not  take  tea  with  her  to-night ; 
I  am  so  sorry." 

The   mention   of    Ellen   brought    Mrs. 


The  Story  of  a  Child  7/7 

Dale  back  from  her  consternation  at  Jane 
Temple's  folly,  to  her  own  troubles.  "  I 
am  afraid,"  she  said,  "  that  I  was  a  little 
stern  to  Euphemia  when  she  came  to 
make  her  request.  I  was  obliged  to  send 
her  home  somewhat  abruptly."  And 
then  she  explained  that  Ellen  had  been 
naughty,  and  it  was  necessary  to  punish 
her. 

Miss  Jane's  kind  eyes  filled  with  pity. 
"  Dear  little  Ellen  !  "  she  said. 


VIII 

THE  day  was  long  and  sad  to  Mrs. 
Dale  ;  she  was  disciplining  Ellen  ac 
cording  to  her  light,  but  she  was  not  hope 
ful.  "  She  is  repenting  now,"  she  thought, 
"  but  she  will  have  forgotten  both  her  re 
pentance  and  her  naughtiness  by  to-mor 
row."  As  it  happened,  however,  Ellen  was 
too  interested  in  the  situation  to  repent. 
She  had  made  haste  to  commit  to  memory 
the  verses  her  grandmother  had  brought 
her,  meditating,  as  she  studied,  not  upon 
the  sacred  words,  but  upon  her  wrongs. 
The  verses  memorized,  she  went  over  to 
the  window  and  knelt  down,  her  cheek 
resting  on  the  sill. 

She  did  not  want  to  read  any  of   her 
118 


The  Story  of  a  Child  ng 

sedate  little  story-books.  The  "Parent's 
Assistant,"  or  "  Harry  and  Lucy,"  or  the 
Rollo  books  were  not  as  entertaining  as 
was  her  own  misery.  Oh,  how  long,  how 
long  was  this  cruel  punishment  to  last  ? 
For  she  would  never  beg  Betsey's  pardon  ! 
Perhaps  she  should  grow  old,  shut  up  here 
in  this  room.  She  fancied  how,  gradually, 
her  clothes  would  wear  out,  her  hair  grow 
gray,  and  the  dust  heap  itself  about  her, 
as  she  sat  silent,  motionless  !  A  moment 
later  she  thought  that  she  should  not  like 
it,  and  decided  that  she  would  bring  her 
imprisonment  to  an  end  :  she  would  starve 
herself!  She  would  not  eat  any  dinner 
nor  any  supper.  Probably  she  should  die 
in  a  few  days,  and  then  how  sorry  every 
body  would  be !  She  should  be  going  to 
heaven,  so  she  would  not  be  sorry. 

"  I  '11  plume  my  wings  and  take  my  flight," 

said  Ellen  to  herself.      But   before  doing 
this  she  would  forgive  her  enemies. 

She    pictured   the   scene :    Her   grand- 


/2o  The  Story  of  a  Child     . 

mother  would  find  her  lying,  white  and 
still,  on  her  bed.  She  would  see  that 
Ellen  had  eaten  nothing ;  then  she  would 
implore  her  to  eat  —  oh,  anything  !  Yes, 
fruit-cake  if  she  wished  it !  But  no ; 
Ellen  would  turn  her  head  away,  and  whis 
per  that  she  should  rather  go  to  heaven. 
(The  tears  were  rolling  peacefully  down 
her  face  by  this  time.)  At  last  her 
grandmother  would  say,  "  Oh,  my  darling 
Ellen,  I  have  been  very  cruel  to  you  ;  is 
there  anything  I  can  give  you  for  a 
present  ? " 

Here  Ellen  stopped  crying,  and  reflected 
upon  what  she  should  accept,  to  signify 
her  forgiveness.  "Yes,"  she  decided  to 
reply,  "  yes,  grandmother,  you  may  give 
me  a  wig  of  long  yellow  curls,  and — a 
Bible."  What  a  pang  that  last  word 
would  give  her  grandmother !  How  it 
would  betray  the  saintly  character  to 
which  Mrs.  Dale  had  been  so  blind  !  The 
Bible  would  not  be  of  much  use,  as  she 
was  going  to  die  immediately.  But  she 


TJ}e  Story  of  a  Child  i2r 

might  leave  it  to  Effie  ?  "  Effie  does  n't 
read  her  Bible  as  much  as  I  do,"  Ellen 
thought,  with  solemn  satisfaction.  As 
for  the  lovely  yellow  wig,  she  would  wear 
that  when  she  was  dead.  At  this  thought 
she  wept  afresh. 

She  wondered  what  would  be  done  with 
her  "things," — her  china  dishes,  her 
best  hat,  her  little  iron  bank,  into  which, 
on  every  birthday,  her  grandmother  slipped 
a  gold-piece. 

"Why,"  said  Ellen  to  herself,  "  I  ought 
to  make  my  will !  " 

She  jumped  up  at  that  thought,  and 
began  with  a  blunt,  blue  lead  pencil  to 
inscribe  her  last  wishes  upon  a  large  sheet 
of  foolscap.  "  I  leave  my  geography  to 
Betsey  Thomas,"  she  wrote  in  a  round, 
childish  hand,  and  added,  "  but  she  's  a 
cross  girl."  Here  she  paused  to  remember 
her  legatees  and  her  possessions  ;  then, 
hurriedly,  wrote  Miss  Jane  Temple's  name, 
and  bit  the  end  of  her  pencil  for  two 
minutes  before  she  could  decide  what  to 


i22  The  Story  of  a  Child 

bequeath  to  her  kind  friend.  The  thought 
of  Miss  Jane  awoke  the  remorse  for  her 
idolatry,  and  for  a  moment  that  horrible 
melancholy,  which  has  a  physical  abiding- 
place  just  below  the  breastbone,  dimmed 
her  pleasure  in  the  prospect  of  death. 
But  to.  leave  Miss  Jane  a  lock  of  her  hair, 
and  Lydia  Wright  her  paper  dolls,  cheered 
her  to  tears  ;  for,  with  a  thrill  of  pride, 
she  felt  her  eyes  blur  with  a  sudden  mist. 

This  touched  her  deeply,  and  she 
leaned  forward,  and  squeezed  her  eyes 
tightly  shut,  at  which  one  single  tear 
trickled  down  her  cheek  and  splashed  full 
upon  the  paper  ;  it  made  a  round  blot  with 
a  little  fringe  all  about  it ;  she  breathed 
on  it  to  dry  it  ;  but  as  the  spot  rose  into 
a  wet  blister,  she  had  a  bitter  moment 
of  feeling  that  her  heirs  might  not  recog 
nize  it  as  a  teardrop.  She  wondered  how 
it  would  do  to  write  "tear"  above  it.  She 
wished  she  could  cry  some  more  to  make 
another  blot,  but  alas  !  interest  had  dried 
her  eyes,  and  she  could  only  proceed  to 


The  Story  of  a  Child 

divide  her  property  among  those  who  ap 
preciated  her  so  little. 

Her  horse-hair  snakes  she  bequeathed 
to  Mrs.  Temple  ;  "  Little  Henry  and  his 
Bearer"  to  Mr.  Temple. 

"  I  will  give  my  bank  to  my  grand 
mother,"  she  wrote,  but,  sighing,  added, 
as  older  consciences  have  done  before  her, 
"  the  money  in  it  is  for  the  poor  hea 
then." 

She  paused  here  to  note  with  satisfac 
tion  the  perfection  of  her  teardrop,  and 
to  look  out  over  the  garden.  How  hot. 
and  bright  it  was  out  of  doors  !  There 
was  a  bed  of  scarlet  poppies  blazing  in 
the  sunshine ;  even  the  shadows  looked 
hot.  She  could  see,  across  the  lane,  the 
stone  posts  of  Mr.  Temple's  gate,  and 
that  made  her  think  of  Effie  and  of  the 
Bible  she  must  leave  her. 

Just  then  she  noticed  that  the  tele 
graph  string  was  jarring  and  thrilling  ; 
that  meant  that  Effie  was  at  the  other  end 
of  it,  and  was  about  to  send  her  a  note. 


124  The  Story  of  a  Child 

The  thought  of  communication  with  the 
outside  world  made  her  forget  death ; 
she  dropped  her  will,  and  leaned  out  of  the 
window.  In  a  moment,  slowly  and  with 
little  jerks,  came  the  bit  of  folded  paper 
floating  over  the  sunny  garden,  catching 
for  a  perilous  instant  on  the  highest  twig 
of  the  laburnum,  and  then  landing  safely 
among  the  leaves  of  the  woodbine,  below 
the  window.  Ellen  with  trembling  fingers 
unfastened  it,  and,  smoothing  the  crum 
pled  paper,  read"  "  Come  iip  to  the  somer 
•  hous  after  diner" 

She  dropped  it  dismally.  What  was 
the  use  of  Efne's  saying  that  ?  Why 
did  n't  she  sympathize  ? 

"  Grandmother  wont  allow  me  to  go  out 
of  my  room,"  she  wrote.  "  She  says  I 
must  ask  Betsey's  pardon" 

She  fastened  her  answer  to  the  line,  and 
watched  it  flutter  back  to  Effie ;  but  the 
excitement  had  faded  from  her  face. 
"  Effie  knows  grandmother  won't  let  me 
go  up  to  the  summer-house,"  she  said  to 


ne  Story  of  a  Child  125 

herself.      But  Effie's  next  note  explained 
her  meaning. 

"  Is  the  door  loked  ?  Can't  you  get  out  ?  " 
"  Goodness  !  "  said  Ellen.  She  read  it 
over  and  over.  "  The  door  locked  ? " 
Why,  no,  of  course  not.  And  after  din 
ner  her  grandmother  always  took  a  nap  — 
and  Betsey  Thomas  would  be  carrying  in 
the  clothes  from  the  lines  on  the  kitchen 
green  —  and  there  would  be  no  one  to 
see  her  leave  her  room  !  "  I  won't  do  it," 
she  said  to  herself ;  "  only,  it  would  be 
easy  to  do  it."  She  was  so  absorbed  and 
excited  that  she  forgot  to  send  an  answer 
to  the  note.  Very  quietly,  on  tiptoe,  she 
crossed  the  room,  and  tried  the  door.  It 
was  not  locked;  but  Ellen  stood  staring 
at  it  with  great  eyes.  This  punishment 
of  being  obliged  to  stay  in  her  room  she 
knew  well ;  it  had  happened  only  too  often 
before,  although  never,  perhaps,  for  so 
serious  an  offense.  But  it  had  never 
occurred  to  her  that  it  was  voluntary. 
She  went  back  to  the  window  with  a  be- 


126  The  Story  of  a  Child 

wildered  air,  and  started  to  see  another 
note  awaiting  her  among  the  leaves. 

"  Why  don  t you  anser?  Are  you  lokcd 
in  ?  " 

Ellen's  reply  betrayed  the  agitation  of 
a  new  idea. 

"I'm  not  locked  in,  but  I  cant  get  out'' 

She  hoped  and  feared  at  once  that  Effie 
would  not  send  any  more  notes,  but  a 
moment  later  another  little  folded  temp 
tation  came  over  the  string. 

"  If  you're  not  loked  in,  come  itp  to  the 
somer  house  right  after  dinner.  Your 
grandmother  is  wiked  to  shut  you  up  in 
prizon.  If  you  beg  that  servant  girl's 
pardon  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again. 
Anser  if  you  'II  come  up  to  the  somer  hous." 

Effie,  standing  on  the  locust  stump,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  wall,  waited  a  long 
time  for  Ellen's  reply  ;  the  delay  made  her 
first  angry,  and  then  scared.  Perhaps 
Mrs.  Dale  had  come  in  and  caught  Ellen 
reading  the  notes  !  At  this  thought  she 
was  about  to  jump  down  from  the  stump 


The  Story  of  a  Child  727 

and  run  away,  when,  lo  !  there  was  an  an 
swer  coming  slowly  along  the  line.  Effie, 
in  her  eagerness  to  get  it  from  the  string 
tore  it  a  little,  but  she  could  read  it  in 
spite  of  that  :  "  /  will  come." 


IX 


£7  LLEN  had  been  hurried  into  decision 
i— '  by  hearing  Betsey  Thomas's  careful 
step  upon  the  stairs,  and  then  the  sound 
of  a  tray  bumping  against  the  door.  Betsey 
must  not  discover  the  correspondence,  and 
the  only  way  to  prevent  that  was  to  con 
sent  to  Effie's  wishes. 

With  excitement  Ellen's  appetite  had 
returned,  and  she  was  glad  to  eat  the 
bread  and  butter  and  cold  meat  which  had 
been  sent  her.  The  thought  of  the  hot 
dinner  downstairs  made  this  severe  diet 
seem  a  cruelty  which  justified  rebellion. 

As  she  ate,  she  was  excitedly  planning 
her  "escape."  Ellen  had  many  a  time 
acted  out  her  own  fancies  of  adventure  or 
128 


The  Story  of  a  Child  729 

peril,  but  she  had  never  had  the  chance  to 
make  them  real,  if  she  chose.  Her  skill 
in  weaving  romance  blurred  just  now  the 
actual  fact  of  her  naughtiness  and  gave 
the  whole  situation  an  unreality  and  an  in 
terest  that  kept  her  conscience  quiet. 

She  might  as  well  look  over  her  verses, 
she  thought,  until  it  was  time  to  dismiss 
this  exciting  possibility.  "  He  that  ruleth 
his  spirit,"  said  Ellen,  sitting  in  the  big 
dimity-covered  chair,  her  hands  clasped 
above  her  head,  and  her  small  heels  swing 
ing  to  and  fro,  "is  greater  than  he  that 
taketh  a  city.  Oh!"  —  she  heard  Mrs. 
Dale's  step  upon  the  stairs ;  then  the  clos 
ing  of  her  bedroom  door. 

Ellen,  sat  with  parted  lips  ;  the  clock 
in  the  lower  hall  struck  three.  The  great 
moment  had  come  !  She  rose  stealthily, 
and,  opening  her  door,  looked  out  into  the 
hall.  Then  a  sudden  gush  of  determina 
tion  took  the  little  temptation  she  had 
played  with  and  carried  it  into  action. 
She  was  bewildered,  absorbed,  fascinated, 


i  jo  The  Story  of  a  Child 

to  find  herself  yielding  —  yielding!  She 
had  not  supposed  she  was  really  going  to 
do  it ;  her  own  possibility  intoxicated  her  ; 
hardly  breathing,  she  slipped  on  tiptoe  out 
of  the  room,  past  her  grandmother's  door, 
and  then,  step  by  step,  downstairs. 

It  was  a  still  August  day.  Far  off,  be 
yond  the  meadows  at  the  foot  of  the  ter 
race,  came,  through  the  thinning  leaves, 
the  sparkle  and  flash  of  the  river  ;  nearer, 
in  the  stone  vase  in  the  middle  of  the 
garden,  a  bunch  of  scarlet  geraniums  blazed 
and  glowed.  Rip  lay  stretched  on  the 
warm  dust  of  the  carriage  road  at  the  foot 
of  the  steps.  There  was  a  scent  of  hot 
sunshine  in  the  hazy  air.  Ellen,  palpi 
tating  with  excitment,  stood  a  moment  on 
the  porch,  and  looked  at  it  all,  then  she 
heard  a  step  somewhere  in  the  silent  house 
and  darted  like  a  bird  out  into  the  freedom 
of  the  sunshine !  Three  minutes  later 
she  had  reached  the  summer-house,  and 
Effie,  awaiting  her  for  half  an  hour,  was 
crying  out  for  particulars. 


The  Story  of  a  Child  131 

"  Wait  till  I  —  get  —  my  —  breath  "  — 
Ellen  gasped.  When  she  did  get  her 
breath,  they  talked  in  whispers,  though 
there  was  no  one  nearer  than  Betsey  tak 
ing  the  clothes  off  the  lines  down  on  the 
kitchen  green ;  but  considering,  how  as 
tonished  Betsey  would  have  been  could 
she  have  overheard  that  conversation,  it 
was  no  wonder  that  they  whispered. 

Suddenly  Ellen  jumped  up.  "  Oh,  Effie, 
what  time  do  you  think  it  is  ?  Oh,  I  'm 
afraid  it  's  late  ! " 

"No,  it  is  n't,"  Effie  reassured  her; 
"  only,  may  be  you  'd  better  go.  Now 
don't  forget  :  if  she  does  n't  apologize  to 
you,  you  are  to  be  here  to-morrow  morn 
ing,  with  some  clothes  and  food  and  your 
bank ;  and  I  '11  be  here  with  my  things, 
and  "  — 

"  Oh,  Effie,  I  must  run  !  Grandmother 
will  be  downstairs,  and  then  what  shall  I 
do?  Oh,  Effie,  I  must  go!"  Ellen  stamped 
her  foot  with  impatient  fright. 

But  Mrs.  Dale  had  not  yet  come  down- 


132  He  Story  of  a  Child 

stairs  from  her  nap,  so  Ellen  was  able  to 
regain  her  room  quite  unobserved.  There, 
with  a  wildly  beating  heart,  she  opened 
her  Bible  for  a  look  at  the  verses  ;  the 
habit  of  doing  as  she  was  bid  made  this 
final  study  instinctive,  but  she  could  hardly 
see  the  words,  much  less  feel  their  mean 
ing. 

"  I  will  certainly  do  it,"  she  assured  her 
self  ;  "  and  oh,  what  will  Lydia  say  ?  Yes, 
I  will  not  come  back  until  I  am  twenty 
years  old.  By  that  time  grandmother  will 
know  that  she  can't  order  me  around,  and 
starve  me,  and  treat  me  so  cruelly  ;  and 
very  likely  Betsey  Thomas  will  be  married 
then  —  in  nine  years." 

The  two  children  had  arranged  how  they 
were  to  support  themselves  during  these 
years  of  absence,  in  which  their  families 
were  to  repent.  "  We  '11  go  to  a  city," 
Effte  had  said  vaguely.  And  once  there, 
they  were  to  be  milliners.  There  had  been 
a  moment's  wavering  in  favor  of  a  candy- 
shop,  but  reflection  upon  the  amount  of 


The  Story  of  a  Child 

money  Mrs.  Temple  paid  for  her  bonnets 
decided  them,  for,  as  Ellen  pointed  out,  if 
they  sold  a  dozen  twenty-five-dollar  bon 
nets  a  day,  they  could  well  afford  to  buy 
candy,  instead  of  serving  behind  a  counter 
for  the  chance  to  eat  it.  Effie  explained 
incidentally  that  her  reason  for  including 
herself  in  these  delightful  plans  was  that 
her  aunt  Jane  made  her  life  a  burden,  and 
tried  all  the  time  to  make  Mrs.  Temple 
"cross." 

Everything  being  thus  arranged,  it  only 
remained  for  Ellen  to  have  firmness  in  the 
coming  interview  with  her  grandmother. 
It  occurred  to  the  child  to  consider  as  an 
interesting  possibility,  what  she  should  do 
if  her  grandmother  were  to  have  a  change 
of  heart  before  the  carefully  planned  ret 
ribution  could  fall  upon  her.  Suppose 
Mrs.  Dale  should  say  she  were  sorry  ?  It 
would  be  disappointing,  but  such  things 
had  been,  and  it  was  well  to  be  prepared. 
Suppose  she  were  to  say,  "  Ellen,  I  was 
very  unkind,  and  Betsey  Thomas  shall  beg 


134  The  Story  of  a  Child 

your  pardon.  And  what  would  you  like 
me  to  do  for  you  ?  " 

Ellen  put  her  cheek  down  on  the  open 
Bible  and  meditated.  She  would  like  to 
have  all  the  pin-wheels  and  fire-crackers 
that  she  wanted  ;  also  torpedoes,  —  those 
little  white  bags  of  flame  and  noise;  with 
these  she  would  give  an  exhibition  to  the 
village,  especially  to  the  tannery  hands. 
The  thought  of  her  own  importance  and 
beneficence,  in  thus  officiating,  filled  her 
with  a  glow  of  self-approval  which  seemed 
to  fade  into  a  blur  of  general  satisfaction, 
and  the  next  thing  she  knew,  she  heard 
Betsey  Thomas  saying,  "  Waken  up,  Ellen ; 
your  grandmother  is  waiting  down  on  the 
porch  to  hear  you  say  your  verses.  Wake 
up,  and  let  me  brush  your  hair  and  tidy 
you  up  a  bit." 

Betsey  was  very  much  affected  by  ob 
serving  that  Ellen  had  fallen  asleep  upon 
the  open  page  of  her  Bible,  and  she  made 
haste  to  report  it  to  Mrs.  Dale,  who  was 
likewise  somewhat  impressed  by  it.  It 


The  Story  of  a  Child 

made  her  ready  to  forgive  the  child  at 
once,  and  to  hope  that  Ellen  had  been 
seeking  a  higher  forgiveness. 

Ellen  gathered  up  her  courage,  and 
went  slowly  downstairs ;  and  then,  in  her 
fresh  white  apron,  her  brown  hair  tucked 
smoothly  behind  her  little  ears,  and  her 
hands  folded  in  front  of  her,  she  stood  be 
fore  Mrs.  Dale,  and  repeated  quite  perfectly 
the  half  dozen  verses  she  had  been  told 
to  learn.  With  downcast  eyes  she  listened 
in  dutiful  silence  to  her  grandmother's  ad 
monitions.  "  And  now,  Ellen,"  Mrs.  Dale 
said,  with  a  sigh  of  relief  that  this  trying 
day  was  ended,  —  "  now,  Ellen,  I  hope  that 
you  will  always  remember  your  duty  as  a 
little  Christian  child,  and  never  forget  that 
a  lady  is  as  courteous  to  those  whom  God 
has  placed  in  a  different  station  as  to 
her  own  friends.  You  may  kiss  me  good 
night,  my  child,  and  then  go  and  tell 
Betsey  Thomas  that  you  are  sorry.  To 
morrow  morning  you  will  turn  over  a  new 
leaf  and  start  out  fresh." 


The  Story  of  a  Child 

Ellen  was  quite  pale.  "  No  'm,"  she  said 
briefly. 

"  You  mean  it  shall  never  happen 
again  ?  I  am  very  glad,  my  dear.  And  I 
am  sure  you  have  asked  your  Heavenly 
Father  to  forgive  you,  also?" 

Ellen's  response  of  silence  to  appeals 
of  this  kind  always  confused  Mrs.  Dale ; 
like  one  who  pronounces  a  magic  formula 
and  sees  no  result,  she  was  vaguely  dis 
turbed.  It  had  happened  many,  many 
times,  but  she  never  grew  accustomed  to 
the  pain  of  it.  "  Now  go  to  Betsey 
Thomas,"  she  said,  with  the  sternness 
which  means  embarrassment. 

"  No  'm,"  Ellen  said.  "  I  don't  want  to, 
grandmother." 

In  the  explanation  which  followed  this, 
and  in  the  order  that  she  was  to  go  to  bed 
without  any  supper,  and  spend  the  next 
day,  until  she  apologized  to  Betsey,  in  her 
own  room,  it  seemed  to  the  child  as 
though  she  could  hear  her  heart  beat.  It 
did  not  occur  to  Mrs.  Dale,  grieved  and 


The  Story  of  a  Child  137 

anxious,  and  viewing  the  situation  with 
a  seriousness  of  which  it  was  not  worthy, 
that  some  patient  reasoning  might  have 
brought  the  suggestion  of  apology  from 
the  child's  own  lips,  although  she  would 
have  been  the  first  to  realize  that  such  an 
impulse  from  within  would  have  counted 
more  in  character  than  when  it  was  the 
result  of  insistence  from  without. 

Perhaps  the  whole  difficulty  was  in  Mrs. 
Dale's  lack  of  imagination  ;  but,  besides 
that,  it  must  be  admitted  that  it  is  not 
easy  for  a  righteous  and  inflexible  will  to 
concede  a  point.  Indeed,  it  would  be  in 
teresting  to  know  how  much  the  sense  of 
personal  dignity  is  responsible  for  mistakes 
made  in  the  training  of  children  ;  mis 
takes  which  apparently  do  not  injure  the 
children  very  much,  —  for,  after  all,  we 
most  of  us  turn  out  pretty  well,  —  but 
from  which  the  characters  of  the  elders 
certainly  suffer. 


MISS  JANE  TEMPLE  was  strangely 
distrait  that  afternoon.  She  forgot 
her  sister-in-law's  beef  tea  at  four,  and 
glass  of  sherry  at  six.  She  told  Effie, 
briefly,  that  she  would  not  play  backgam 
mon  with  her  after  tea.  "  I  have  —  some 
writing  to  do,"  she 'explained,  in  answer 
to  the  child's  impatient  protest,  and  there 
was  something  in  her  voice  that  made 
Mrs.  Temple  look  up  and  say,  — 

"Is  there  anything  the  matter,  Janey?" 

"  Oh,  no,    dear    sister,"    she   answered. 

"  Come,  Effie  ;  I  '11  play  just  one  game  ; 

but  I  really  am  too  busy  to  play  any  more 

than  that." 

Effie  ran  for  the  board,  but  she  was  as 
138 


The  Story  of  a  Onld 

nervous  as  her  aunt,  and  the  single  game 
was  more  than  enough  for  her.  Her  im 
patience  worried  her  mother,  so  that  she 
was  sent  to  bed,  stamping  her  foot  as  she 
went,  to  Mrs.  Temple's  further  annoyance. 

"  I  don't  know  why  Effie  is  n't  like  that 
dear  little  Ellen,"  said  Mrs.  Temple,  with 
a  sigh.  "  Now  she  has  gone,  Janey,  write 
down  here,  won't  you  ?  Who  are  you  go 
ing  to  write  to  ? " 

Miss  Jane's  face  flushed  suddenly  and 
painfully.  "I  —  well  —  I  have  to  write  to 
a  —  friend,"  she  stammered. 

Mrs. Temple  raised  herself  on  her  elbow, 
and  looked  at  her  with  undisguised  curios 
ity.  "  Why,  Janey,  one  would  think  you 
were  a  girl  writing  to  her  lover." 

Miss  Jane's  laugh  was  so  forced  and 
conscious  that  Mrs.  Temple  was  fairly 
breathless  with  astonishment.  "  Why, 
Jane  Temple  !  "  she  said.  But  the  younger 
woman  had  hurried  upstairs  for  her  writ 
ing  materials.  Mrs.  Temple  fell  back 
among  her  cushions  with  a  puzzled  face. 


140  The  Story  of  a  Child 

"Why,"  she  said  to  herself,  "what  does 
it  mean  ?  Who  can  she  be  writing  to  ? 
That  Dove  man  ?  Is  it  possible  ?  " 

But  when  her  sister-in-law  came  back 
with  her  little  old  rosewood  writing-desk, 
which  folded  over  on  itself,  and  was  lined 
with  faded  purple  velvet,  Mrs.  Temple 
was  quite  apologetic.  "  I  did  n't  mean  to 
seem  curious,  Janey ;  I  did  not  know  that 
you  had  any  secrets  of  that  kind.  I  'm 
sure  I  beg  your  pardon  ? "  She  could  not 
help  the  question  in  her  voice,  nor  an  in 
jured  look. 

"  Of  course,  dear  Euphemia,  I  know 
that.  I  —  I  only  just  have  a  letter  —  of 
no  importance,  to  write.  I  thought  I 
would  write  it  to-night,  though." 

"  It  is  to  Mr.  Dove,"  said  Mrs.  Temple 
to  herself.  "  Dear  me  !  I  would  not  have 
thought  that  of  Janey !  Still,  I  don't 
know  why  she  should  n't  be  friendly  to 
the  poor  little  man ;  he  would  never  dare 
to  presume  upon  it.  And  Janey  never 
would  leave  us."  Mrs.  Temple  grew 


The  Story  of  a  Child  141 

tearful  at  the  thought,  but  Miss  Jane  was 
too  absorbed  in  the  composition  of  a  very 
brief  letter  to  notice  the  invalid.  That 
love  develops  selfishness  is  readily  granted 
by  those  who  are  not  lovers. 

Miss  Temple  wrote  a  line,  and  paused  ; 
then  she  made  some  straight  marks  on  her 
blotting-paper,  and  looked  at  them  thought 
fully  ;  after  that,  she  mended  her  pen,  and 
took  a  fresh  sheet,  and  began  her  letter 
again ;  but  stopped  a  moment  to  press 
down  the  curling  corners  of  the  worn 
velvet  lining  of  her  desk. 

"  You  don't  write  very  much,"  Mrs. 
Temple  observed,  with  something  like 
malice  in  her  voice ;  and  certainly,  in  a 
half  hour,  it  was  not  unreasonable  to  sup 
pose  that  more  than  half  a  page  should 
be  written. 

"  There  is  my  stamp  box,  Janey,  dear," 
she  ventured,  a  little  later,  and  Miss  Jane 
thanked  her,  but  said  she  had  stamped  her 
envelope. 

"  So  it  is  n't  to  anybody  in  Old  Ches- 


The  Story  of  a  Child 

ter,"  Mrs.  Temple  assured  herself.  "  Yes, 
it  must  be  to  Mr.  Tommy  !  "  Mrs.  Temple 
was  growing  interested  and  amiable. 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don't  want  to  seem  to  pry," 
she  said,  with  a  little  cough  behind  her 
thin  white  hand,  as;  with  a  quickened 
breath,  Miss  Jane  suddenly  put  down  her 
pen,  and  folded  her  letter  ;  "  I  don't  want 
to  pry,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  a  letter 
that  puzzles  one  to  write,  as  that  has  evi 
dently  puzzled  you,  should  be  —  well,  I 
should  think  you  would  want  advice.  Not 
that  I  want  to  give  advice.  I  should  be 
quite  unwilling  to  advise  ;  only  I  'd  —  give 
it  a  good  deal  of  thought,  if  I  were  you," 
she  ended  weakly. 

"  I  have, "  answered  Miss  Temple  gently. 
Then  the  determination  with  which  she 
had  folded  the  letter  seemed  to  desert 
her,  and  for  a  moment  she  held  it  with 
tremulous  hesitation.  "  I  have  thought," 
she  repeated,  absently.  And  then  she 
seemed  to  come  to  herself  and  remem 
ber  her  duties.  "  Are  n't  you  ready  now 


The  Story  of  a  Child  143 

for  your  gruel,  dear  sister  ? "  she  said. 
"  I  '11  go  and  get  it."  She  put  the  letter 
in  her  pocket  and  rose. 

Mrs.  Temple  shut  her  eyes  and  whim 
pered,  "  I  'm  sure  I  did  n't  mean  to  be  im 
pertinent.  You  're  very  unkind  to  me, 
Janey." 

Miss  Jane  was  full  of  protestations  ; 
"  Why  !  of  course  nothing  you  could  say 
would  be  impertinent.  Indeed,  I  'm  al 
ways  grateful  for  your  interest.  Now, 
won't  you  sit  up  and  take  this  gruel?" 
Her  voice  was  nervous  with  unspoken 
excuses. 

She  slipped  her  arm  under  the  invalid's 
head  and  held  the  bowl  to  her  lips,  and 
said  she  was  sure  Mrs.  Temple  was  a  little 
stronger,  and  she  did  think  that  gray  silk 
wrapper  was  so  becoming. 

But  she  did  not  mention  the  address  of 
the  letter. 


XI 


HPHE   next   morning   Ellen  was  awake 
A       and  staring,  wide-eyed,  at  the  dawn, 
long  before  the  maids,  in  the  faint  light, 
went  yawning  down  to  the  kitchen. 

It  seemed,  when  she  awoke,  as  though 
some  terrible  dream  had  oppressed  her, 
and  she  felt  for  a  moment  that  sense  of 
wondering  relief,  which  grown  persons 
know  too  well,  and  that  fades  so  in 
stantly  into  miserable  certainty.  Ellen, 
with  a  frightened  sigh,  remembered ;  and 
then  buried  her  face  in  her  pillow,  and 
felt  the  tears  behind  her  eyes,  though  no 
tears  came.  Older  persons  know  this 
pain,  too.  For  relief,  the  child  began  to 
think  of  what  she  had  promised  to  do. 
144 


The  Story  of  a  Child  145 

It  was  impossible !  How  had  she  ever 
dared  to  think  of  such  a  thing  ?  Yet 
how  could  she  break  her  promise  to  Effie  ? 
The  honesty  of  that  thought  drove  her 
into  planning  the  details  of  this  impos 
sible  action.  She  must  make  her  arrange 
ments,  even  though  she  might  not  be  able 
to  carry  them  out.  First  she  must  pack 
her  "  things  "  up  in  something.  She  be 
gan  to  think  of  a  certain  leather  bag 
which  had  belonged  to  her  grandfather  ; 
she  saw  it  in  her  memory,  —  the  sole 
leather  worn  and  shabby,  and  the  "  Eben 
Dale "  in  fat  black  letters  on  one  side. 
She  must  get  that  bag.  She  must  — 
steal  it!  Well,  she  had  nothing  else, 
she  could  n't  help  it  ;  it  was  n't  her  fault ; 
she  had  to  have  a  bag ;  poor  little  Ellen ! 
She  was  knowing  the  confusion  of  older 
sinners  :  self-blame  and  self-pity. 

The  bag  was  in  the  spare  room  across 
the  hall.  She  was  afraid  of  this  rarely 
used  room,  it  was  so  dark  and  silent,  and 
once  her  grandfather  had  lain  dead  in  it ! 


146  The  Story  of  a  Child 

No  one  guessed  what  terrors  had  shaken 
the  child  whenever  she  had  had  to  enter 
it.  She  used  to  run  past  its  closed  door, 
flinging  a  scared  look  over  her  shoulder ; 
it  seemed  to  her  that  some  time  the  door 
would  open,  and  something  stand  on  the 
threshold ;  she  never  said  what  would 
stand  there,  her  terror  needed  no  detail  of 
words.  Oh,  how  hard  it  was  that  the  bag 
should  be  in  that  room  ! 

She  crept  out  of  bed,  and  without  wait 
ing  to  dress  stole  across  the  hall  and 
softly  pushed  the  spare  room  door  open ; 
the  shutters  were  bowed,  and  one  thin 
line  of  the  sweet  morning  light  came  in 
from  the  dawn  outside,  touching,  like  a 
pointing  finger,  the  great  bed,  draped  in 
its  white  valance  and  coverlet.  Its  four 
mahogany  posts  made  Ellen  think  of  the 
obelisk  which  marked  Dr.  Dale's  grave 
in  the  churchyard.  The  noiseless,  lifting 
line  of  the  sunbeam  lay  upon  the  white 
matting,  almost  at  her  feet ;  she  stopped, 
then  stepped  across  it,  with  a  gasp.  After 


The  Story  of  a  Child 

that,  though  the  tide  of  resolution  rose 
and  fell,  the  deed  was  practically  done  ; 
in  the  child's  mind  arose  confusedly  the 
vision  of  the  sword  of  tremulous  flame  out 
side  the  gate  of  Paradise.  The  morning 
sunbeam  and  the  little  child  made  the  pic 
ture  of  a  human  heart's  profanity.  Ellen 
felt,  but  did  not  understand,  this  critical 
moment  created  by  her  imagination. 

Suddenly  she  thought  the  valance  about 
the  bed  fluttered,  and  she  almost  cried  out, 
and  then  stood  with  staring  eyes.  Oh, 
what  if  there  were  something  under  that 
awful  bed  ?  There  was  a  moment  of 
strained  silence ;  then,  on  tiptoe,  looking 
sideways  at  the  valance,  she  glided  across 
the  room  ;  never  once  did  she  turn  her 
back  upon  the  bed  ;  it  seemed  as  though, 
if  she  glanced  away  for  an  instant,  she 
should  see,  when  she  looked  back,  the 
long  straight  lines  of  the  sheet,  as  she 
had  seen  them  three  years  before.  When 
at  last  she  held  the  bag  in  her  hand,  and 
crept  towards  the  door,  a  glimpse  of  her- 


148  The  Story  of  a  Child 

self  in  the  glass,  in  her  white  night-gown, 
with  wide,  terrified  eyes,  startled  her  so 
that  she  almost  dropped  it. 

When  the  first  fright  was  over,  Ellen 
began  to  pack  her  dearly  bought  valise. 
How  silent  the  house  was  !  The  wet  leaves 
of  the  woodbine  outside  her  window  be 
gan  to  shine  as  the  sun  looked  around  the 
corner  of  the  house  ;  some  birds  twittered  ; 
she  heard  a  latch  lift  and  fall,  and  knew 
that  the  women  were  going  downstairs. 
It  was  very  exciting.  She  must  hurry 
with  her  packing,  she  thought,  or  Betsey 
Thomas  might  discover  her. 

What  should  she  take  with  her?  Her 
best  dress,  certainly ;  but  she  found,  on 
squeezing  it  into  the  smallest  possible  bun 
dle,  that  there  would  be  little  room  for 
anything  else  in  the  bag,  and  drew  it  out 
again,  meshed  with  wrinkles.  In  its  place 
she  put  a  small  china  vase,  and  then  sat 
down  upon  the  floor  to  reflect  upon  what 
else  was  necessary.  Her  Sunday  hat,  of 
course.  The  soft  leghorn,  with  its  white 


The  Story  of  a  Child  149 

ribbons,  was  easily  rolled  up  and  pushed 
into  the  yawning  jaws  of  the  bag.  Boots, 
—  she  should  need  boots  ?  "  I  might  get 
my  feet  wet,"  she  considered,  proud  to  find 
how  practical  she  was.  So,  hastily,  she 
dropped  a  pair  of  shoes  in  beside  the  hat ; 
and  then,  with  a  quick  impulse,  tucked  her 
Bible  in  one  corner.  This  gave  her  tor 
tured  little  conscience  a  momentary  relief  ; 
it  was  so  good  to  take  her  Bible  !  Her 
bank  ?  She  had  almost  forgotten  her 
bank.  That  would  have  been,  indeed,  a 
serious  omission.  And  here  she  came 
to  an  end  of  her  packing ;  there  was 
really  nothing  else  to  take  ;  money,  boots, 
a  hat,  and  a  Bible,  —  what  else  was  needed 
for  a  journey?  So  she  pushed  the  bag 
under  the  bed,  that  it  might  escape  Bet 
sey's  eyes  when  she  should  enter  with 
the  tray  and  breakfast.  But  Betsey,  when 
she  came,  did  not  glance  about  the  room, 
nor  speak  to  Ellen  ;  following  Mrs.  Dale's 
directions,  she  put  the  tray  down,  silently, 
and  went  away. 


/  50  The  Story  of  a  Child 

Ellen  debated  within  herself  whether 
she  should  eat  her  breakfast  or  put  it  in 
her  bag.  She  decided  on  the  former  course, 
for,  as  the  food  was  to  be  eaten  some 
time,  as  well  now  as  later.  Breakfast  over, 
came  the  waiting  until  nine  o'clock,  when 
she  was  to  escape  by  means  of  the  back 
stairs.  She  was  greatly  excited,  and  when, 
suddenly,  her  bedroom  door  opened,  she 
started  so  violently  that  Betsey  Thomas 
tried  to  reassure  her,  before  delivering  a 
message  from  Mrs.  Dale. 

"  Don't  be  scared,  Ellen  ;  law,  it 's  only 
me.  And  Ellen,  why  don't  you  be  a 
good  girl  ?  I  don't  mind  nothin'  !  You 
just  say  you  '11  apologize,  child.  Do,  now, 
Ellen,"  she  said  anxiously. 

Ellen  did  not  answer.  "  Anyway,  your 
grandmother  says  you  are  to  go  out  of 
doors  for  an  hour  and  walk  ;  and  then  she 
says  —  well,  says  she,  '  Ellen  can  come 
and  see  me,  if  she  's  anything  to  say  ! '  Do, 
Ellen.  I  wish  't  you  would,  child  ?  " 

Ellen  looked  out  of  the  window  to  hide 


The  Story  of  a  Cbild  75; 

the  tears  that  were  trembling  on  her 
lashes. 

"  Your  grandmother  has  a  headache, 
she  ain't  up  yet,"  Betsey  ended  signifi 
cantly,  her  hand  upon  the  door-knob ;  and 
then  she  turned  back  to  add,  "  I  'm  to 
leave  your  dinner  on  the  chest  of  drawers 
in  the  back  entry,  Ellen,  and  you  're  to 
get  it  yourself,  your  grandmother  says." 

The  little  girl  looked  scared  ;  had  she 
made  her  grandmother  ill  ?  She  had  prom 
ised  Effie,  —  she  must  not  break  her  word  ; 
but  how  dreadful  if  she  had  made  her 
grandmother  ill!  Oh,  how  unhappy  she 
was !  She  kept  saying  over  and  over  to 
herself  that  she  had  "promised  Effie  ; " 
and  so  she  must  go.  But  when,  with  her 
bag  in  her  hand,  she  started,  ostensibly 
for  the  hour's  walk  in  the  garden,  it  was 
still  incredible  to  her  that  she  should  be 
able  to  keep  her  word.  She  stopped  a  mo 
ment  in  the  upper  hall  to  wipe  her  eyes, 
and  then,  feeling  very  homesick,  she  crept 
to  her  grandmother's  door,  and,  kneeling 
down,  kissed  the  knob,  softly. 


The  Story  of  a  Child 

There  was  no  sound  behind  the  closed 
door,  for  Mrs.  Dale  had  had  her  coffee  and 
dropped  into  a  nap ;  but  the  lack  of  any 
response  to  her  burst  of  affection  made 
Ellen's  old  bitterness  come  back ;  the 
sense  of  being  badly  treated  put  her  mind 
again  into  the  comfortable  grooves  of  habit, 
and  an  unreal  wretchedness  made  her  so 
much  happier,  that  she  was  able  to  be  in 
terested  in  the  situation,  and  say  to  herself 
that  she  was  "escaping!"  She  actually 
sauntered  through  the  gooseberry  bushes 
of  the  kitchen  garden,  taking  the  exercise 
which  her  grandmother  had  permitted  her. 
The  lawful  prelude  to  an  unlawful  event 
had  its  charm  for  Ellen. 

She  said  to  herself  that  her  absence 
would  not  be  discovered  until  the  after 
noon,  for  Betsey  Thomas  would  not  go 
for  the  tray  before  three  o'clock,  at  the 
earliest. 

Effie  was  waiting  for  her  on  the  sum 
mer-house  steps,  looking  quite  pale.  Be 
fore  Ellen  reached  her  she  began  to  talk 


The  Story  of  a  Child 

in  an  agitated  way.  "  Ellen,  do  you  know, 
I  believe  —  I  —  I  can't.  I  'm  not  going  to. 
I  'm  awfully  sorry  —  but  —  aunty  wants 
me  to  have  a  dress  fitted  this  afternoon. 
And,  don't  you  see,  I  can't  ?  I  'm  awfully 
sorry."  Effie  was  very  much  embarrassed. 

Ellen  was  out  of  breath  ;  the  bag,  with 
all  that  money  in  the  iron  bank,  was  heavy. 
She  stopped,  and  put  it  down  on  the  step, 
and  looked  up  at  Effie  silently.  Effie  was 
very  nervous. 

"  Well,  you  see,  I  can't  help  it ;  I  've 
got  to  have  my  dress  fitted.  It  is  n't  my 
fault.  And  you  can  do  it  just  the  same." 

"  Do  you  mean,"  said  Ellen  in  a  low 
voice,  "that  you  've  backed  out  ?" 

Effie  began  to  cry.  "  Well,  what 's  the 
use  ?  I  'm  not  like  you  ;  my  papa 's  not 
dead,  and  he  'd  catch  me  right  off.  Be 
sides,  he  's  awfully  fond  of  me.  So  what 's 
the  use  ? " 

"  All  right." 

"  Oh,  Nellie,  you  're  not  mad  ?  You  can 
go,  all  the  same.  I  've  brought  you  lots  of 


The  Story  of  a  Child 

food  to  take.  Only  you  must  n't  tell  that 
I  did  ;  they  'd  scold  me." 

"  Of  course  I  shall  go  all  the  same.  If 
you  don't  tell,  you  won't  be  scolded." 

"  Oh,  I  won't  tell,"  Effie  promised  with 
a  gasp  ;  "  only,  don't  you  think  they  might 
find  out  ?  They  '11  think  I  ought  to  have 
told  on  you." 

Ellen's  lip  quivered.  "  I  guess  they 
won't  find  out,"  she  said  ;  "but  I  did  n't 
suppose  it  was  right  to  break  your  word, 
Effie  Temple." 

"  Oh,  well,  if  you  are  going  to  get  mad," 
said  Effie,  "  I  would  n't  go  for  anything ! 
I  hate  people  that  get  mad." 

Ellen  swallowed  hard,  and,  turning  away 
from  Effie,  blinked  several  times. 

"  What  have  you  got  in  your  bag  ? " 
Effie  began, softening  a  little.  "Any  cake  ? 
And,  Nellie,  I  thought  I'd  just  say,  '/ 
dorit  think  you  ought  to  go'  Now,  I  'm  not 
to  blame  ;  so  let  's  plan.  See  the  things 
I  brought  :  eggs  —  they  are  not  boiled  — 
and  cake.  Look  !  is  n't  that  nice  ? " 


The  Story  of  a  Child  755 

"I  don't  want  your  cake,"  said  Ellen, 
her  little  red  lower  lip  quivering,  "  and  I 
don't  want  to  make  any  more  plans  with 
you.  I  'm  going  now  ;  good-by,  Euphe- 
mia  Temple.  I  '11  never  speak  to  you 
again." 

Effie  was  divided  between  interest  and 
anger,  in  which  there  was  also  a  little  fear 
that  Ellen  would  not  go,  and  so  all  this 
excitement  would  come  to  an  end.  "  It 's 
real  mean  to  talk  that  way  just  because  I 
can't  go.  I  have  awfully  pretty  dresses, 
not  like  yours  ;  and  they  have  to  be  fitted. 
I  won't  tell  —  and  —  don't  you,  either, 
when  you  come  back.  I  mean,  if  you  come 
back.  And  write  to  me,  Nellie.  Oh,  my 
goodness,  I  wish  I  was  going.  Gracious ! 
it 's  splendid  !  " 

Such  admiration  touched  Ellen,  who 
had  already  reached  the  lower  step.  "  Yes, 
I'll  write  to  you,"  she  said,  "though  I 
don't  think  you  are  a  very  good  friend." 
It  did  not  occur  to  Ellen  that  here  was  her 
opportunity  to  "  back  out."  Somehow, 


1 56  The  Story  of  a  Child 

this  deflection  only  strengthened  her  pur 
pose  ;  very  likely,  had  Effie  been  faithful, 
and  urged  her,  she  would  have  had  some 
wholesome  hesitation. 

Effie  stood  up,  shading  her  eyes  with 
her  hand,  and  watching  Ellen's  little  fig 
ure  flit  across  the  orchard  and  down  the 
hill  to  the  highway.  There,  the  elder 
berry  bushes  that  fringed  the  road  hid  her 
for  a  moment,  and  then  she  was  swallowed 
up  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  as  a  wagon  went 
jogging  by. 

So  began  Ellen's  journey  into  the  world. 


XII 


THE  sun  poured  hot  and  white  upon 
the  long  stretch  of  sandy  road.  Ellen 
had  hurried  through  the  village,  and,  as  it 
chanced,  met  no  one^  Near  the  post- 
office,  on  the  main  street,  she  saw  a  fa 
miliar  figure  which  gave  her  an  instant's 
fear.  It  was  Miss  Jane  Temple  ;  she  had 
a  letter  in  her  hand,  and  seemed  to  be 
reading  its  address,  with  absent  intent- 
ness  ;  she  never  once  looked  up.  Escaped 
from  those  friendly  eyes,  Ellen  was  soon 
beyond  Old  Chester. 

She  walked  steadily,  and  quite  rapidly  ; 

she  passed  two  or  three  people  ;  one  man, 

who  knew  her,  said,  "  Hullo,  Ellen  !  "  in 

a  surprised  way,  but   asked   no   questions. 

157 


1 58  The  Story  of  a  Child 

After  that  she  walked  for  a  while  in  the 
fields  along  the  road,  so  that  she  might 
not  be  seen.  The  bag  was  heavy,  and  so 
was  her  heart. 

It  was  nearly  dinner  time.  She  had 
rejected  Effie's  cake  and  eggs,  and  those 
friendly  berries,  which  in  story-books  offer 
themselves  to  wandering  children,  did  not 
appear.  There  were  locust-trees  here  and 
there  by  the  roadside,  but  they  had  no 
thing  to  give  her  but  a  flickering  shade. 
She  really  wished  very  much  that  she  had 
eaten  more  breakfast.  If  she  could  see  a 
shop,  she  would  open  her  bank,  she  thought, 
and  buy  something.  But  not  only  were 
there  no  shops  in  sight ;  there  were  no 
houses,  either. 

She  had  taken  every  cross-road  and 
lane  and  turn,  and  walked  through  fields, 
and  skirted  meadows,  and  now  had  quite 
lost  her  bearings,  and  had  no  idea  where 
she  was.  The  reaching  the  railroad  at 
Mercer  seemed  simple  enough  when  she 
and  Effie  talked  it  over,  but  where  was 


The  Story  of  a  Child  159 

Mercer?  She  stumbled  a  little  as  she 
plodded  through  the  dust,  and  then  said 
to  herself  that  she  was  so  tired  she  must 
sit  down  and  rest. 

It  was  just  noon.  The  mowed  fields  on 
either  side  of  the  road  lay  in  a  hot  blur  of 
sunshine ;  the  long  z-z-ing  of  the  locusts 
seemed  to  emphasize  the  stillness.  So  far, 
the  child  had  been  sustained  by  excite 
ment,  and  anger  at  Effie,  and  conscious 
ness  of  achievement ;  but  little  by  little  a 
dull  ache  of  reality  was  beginning  to  make 
itself  felt.  She  perceived,  far  off,  the 
moment  when  resolution  would  flag.  But 
it  was  very  far  off.  She  would  still  pre 
tend  to  herself  that  she  was  going  to 
Mercer.  Down  the  white  road  a  little 
cloud  of  dust  was  creeping  along;  Ellen 
could  hear  a  slow  creaking  jolt  before  she 
could  distinguish  in  the  dusty  nimbus  a 
peddler's  cart.  It  was  covered  with  sun 
burned  canvas,  and  as  all  the  weight  was 
on  the  front  seat,  it  tilted  up  behind  and 
sagged  upon  the  front  wheels.  The  white 


160  The  Story  of  a  Child 

mule  which  jogged  between  the  shafts  was 
driven  by  a  large  person  with  a  ruddy 
face ;  he  wore  spectacles,  whose  round  sil 
ver  rims  looked  like  little  satellites  of  his 
moon-like  countenance,  which  had  also  a 
halo  about  it,  made  by  a  fringe  of  white 
whiskers  under  his  chin,  and  a  gray  felt 
hat,  worn  on  the  back  of  his  head.  His 
elbows  were  on  his  knees,  and  the  reins 
hung  loosely  between  his  fingers ;  he  was 
humming  to  himself,  and  once  or  twice 
his  head  nodded,  as  though  he  were  half 
asleep ;  indeed,  his  eyes  were  closed,  and 
he  would  not  have  noticed  Ellen,  stand 
ing  at  the  roadside,  had  not  the  mule 
come  to  a  standstill  to  kick  a  fly  from  its 
gray,  shaggy  stomach. 

"Hallo!"  said  the  man,  opening  his 
eyes. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Ellen  nervously. 

"  Warm  day." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Coin'  my  way  ? " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  Ellen  said,  having  not  the 
slightest  idea  where  he  was  going. 


The  Story  of  a  Child  161 

"  Edward  and  me  '11  give  thee  a  lift ; 
git  in." 

"  Oh,  no,  thank  you,  sir,  I  —  I  'm  go 
ing  to  Mercer."  Her  voice  quivered,  so 
that  the  peddler  looked  at  her  with  sudden 
scrutiny.  "  Hallo,  what 's  this  ?  "  said  he. 

"Why,  sissy,  Mercer  is  twenty  miles 
off  !  Come,  thee  'd  better  git  in  ;  I  'm  go- 
in'  that  way." 

There  was  something  so  pleasant  in  the 
kindliness  of  his  face  that  Ellen,  tired, 
and  afraid  of  her  own  thoughts,  and 
dumbfounded  at  the  idea  of  the  twenty 
miles  still  before  her,  found  herself  say 
ing,  "  Thank  you,  sir,"  and  climbing  in 
over  the  wheel. 

The  white  mule  pricked  up  first  one  ear 
and  then  the  other,  and  with  reluctance 
began  to  move ;  his  master  turned  his 
friendly  spectacles  upon  Ellen.  "Thee's 
a  little  tot  to  be  going  to  Mercer  by  thee- 
self,"  he  said. 

Ellen  did  not  reply. 

There  was  a  pause,  in  which  the  peddler 


1 62  The  Story  of  a  Child 

seemed  to  seek  a  meaning  in  her  silence, 
and  then  he  said,  with  clumsy  and  pains 
taking  gentleness,  "  Does  th'  folks  know 
thee  's  going  to  Mercer,  sissy  ? " 

"  I  think  I  '11  get  out  and  walk,"  Ellen 
said  agitatedly.  The  peddler  made  a  lit 
tle  clucking  sound,  as  though  to  soothe  her ; 
and  then  he  chuckled  to  himself,  but  did 
not  stop  Edward ;  he  only  said,  "  Here  's 
a  joke ! "  Ellen  politely  tried  to  call  up  a 
smile,  but  she  saw  nothing  funny.  She 
wished  she  had  not  gotten  into  the  cart. 

"  I  'm  going  to  be  a  milliner,"  she  said, 
with  childish  embarrassment  at  silence. 

"  Well,  now,  ain't  that  strange  ?  I  'm 
in  the  millinery  way,  myself;  though  I'm 
a  literary  man.  I  sell  books.  There 's 
nothin'  like  literature  for  improvin'  folks." 
He  paused,  and  beamed  upon  Ellen.  "  Like 
books?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  like  to  read  very  much,"  she 
answered.  Ellen  was  vain  of  this  liking  to 
read.  She  had  often  heard  Betsey  Thomas 
speak  of  it  with  admiration  and  wonder. 


The  Story  of  a  Child  163 

The  peddler  nodded  his  head ;  his  spec 
tacles  had  a  kindly  gleam  in  them.  "  I 
can't  say  that  I  'm  particular  about  readin' 
books,  but  I  like  'em.  And  I  like  to 
sell  'em.  My  house  is  full  of  'em.  Thee  's 
welcome  to  look  at  'em." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  but  I  think  I  must  n't 
stop,"  returned  Ellen,  feeling  snubbed,  for 
this  gentleman  was  evidently  contemptu 
ous  about  reading.  "  I  am  going  on  to 
Mercer." 

"Thee  has  no  call  to  stop,"  the  man 
explained.  "This  is  my  house,  this  cart.  I 
sleep  in  it,  and  eat  in  it,  and  follow  my 
literary  pursuits  in  it.  A-puttin'  th'  house 
on  wheels  don't  stop  its,bein'  th'  house, 
huh  ? " 

"Oh,  no,  sir,"  Ellen  assured  him  ner 
vously. 

"  Yes ;  look  around,  look  around  and 
make  theeself  at  home.  This  here  seat 
we  're  settin'  on  is  the  front  piazza ;  that 
there  shelf,  back,  is  my  bedroom  ;  this 
here  roomy  space,  right  behind  us,  is  the 


1 64  The  Story  of  a  Child 

parlor ;  and  right  behind  it  —  see  that 
chalk  line  ?  "  (he  had  fastened  the  reins 
on  a  hook  in  the  wagon  frame  above  his 
head,  so  that  he  could  turn  and  direct 
Ellen's  glances  about  the  cart)  —  "that 
chalk  line  is  the  wall  between  the  kitchen 
and  parlor.  When  it  rains  I  go  in  off  the 
piazza  and  set  in  my  parlor,  and  Edward, 
he  goes  on.  Them  boxes  on  the  shelf 
overhead  is  my  garret ;  they  're  full  of 
finery —  ribbons  and  such  things.  The 
ladies  will  have  them.  Now,  for  me, 
I  'd  rather  have  books.  There  's  the  li 
brary  under  my  bed.  All  convenient,  all 
right  to  th'  hand.  Honest,  I  pities  the 
people  with  them  big,  uneasy  houses.  So 
lonesome  in  'em,  they  must  be  !  " 

Ellen  was  much  interested  ;  she  began 
to  think  that  she  would  go  about  in  a 
cart,  instead  of  being  a  milliner.  Perhaps 
she  'd  better  ask  this  kind  gentleman's 
advice  as  to  where  she  could  get  a  cart, 
and  a  white  mule  like  Edward  ?  (But  all 
the  while,  in  the  background  of  her  heart, 
she  saw  herself  at  home  again.) 


The  Story  of  a  Child  165 

She  could  not  ask  her  question  at  once, 
because  the  peddler  stopped  at  the  door 
of  a  farmhouse ;  and  Ellen,  curled  up  on 
the  seat,  watched  the  ingratiating  polite 
ness  with  which  he  enticed  a  reluctant  cus 
tomer.  He  looked  over  his  glasses,  nodding 
his  head  in  candid  assent  to  each  objec 
tion  that  was  made,  as  though  he  had  no 
personal  interest  in  disposing  of  his  goods. 
He  showed  a  beguiling  sympathy  for  the 
purchaser's  economical  hesitation,  a  sym 
pathy  which  was  almost  an  entreaty  not  to 
purchase,  and  that  could  not  but  result  in  a 
sale.  When  they  drove  away,  followed  by 
a  barking  dog,  and  leaving  a  yard  of  cotton 
lace  in  exchange  for  the  money  jingling  in 
the  peddler's  hand,  he  began  to  sing  to 
himself  ;  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  El 
len,  who  felt  neglected. 

"  I  think  perhaps  I  'd  like  to  sell  things 
in  a  cart,"  she  said,  with  some  dignity  and 
resentment. 

Her  host  interrupted  his  singing,  and 
looked  at  her.  Then  he  chuckled,  "  It 's 


1 66  The  Story  of  a  Child 

a  good  business.  Course  it 's  some  lone- 
some.  Thee  might  be  dyin'  in  th'  house, 
lyin'  there  in  the  parlor,  fer  instance, 
and  not  one  'ud  care ;  but  thee  's  free,  in 
this  business  ;  thee 's  shut  of  all  th'  friends 
that  boss  thee  —  and  want  th'  money!" 
said  the  peddler,  with  a  sudden  seriousness 
of  his  own. 

"I  think  it  would  be  very  pleasant  to 
play  house  in  a  wagon,"  said  Ellen,  strug 
gling  against  the  depression  of  possible 
loneliness,  and  a  little  disappointed  that 
no  reference  was  made  to  the  sorrow  of 
deserted  friends. 

"  Yes  ;  yes,  't  is,"  the  peddler  admitted. 
"  But  nights,  now,  fer  instance.  Lyin' 
there  in  thy  bedroom,  hoo !  thee  don't 
know  what  '11  come  at  thee  in  the  dark ! " 

Ellen  was  instantly  frightened.  "I  —  I 
think  I  won't,"  she  said  faintly.  "  I  guess 
I  '11  be  a  milliner." 

"  Well,  that 's  genteel ;  and  yet  they  do 
say  that  they  starve,  the  milliners,  mostly. 
Graveyards  is  full  of  'em." 


The  Story  of  a  Child  767 

"  Why,  but,"  Ellen  protested,  "  bonnets 
are  twenty-five  dollars  apiece  ;  I  should 
think  they  'd  be  rich,  the  milliners  ?  " 

Among  the  peddler's  customers,  ladies 
who  paid  twenty-five  dollars  for  a  bonnet 
were  not  frequent,  but  he  wisely  avoided 
the  discussion.  Instead,  he  remarked, 
"  Yes,  and  fifty  dollars !  But  thee  sees, 
the  fifties  and  the  twenty-fives  comes  to 
gentlemen  in  my  line.  The  milliners  have 
to  get  their  things  from  us.  They  don't 
make  much." 

This  was  beyond  Ellen,  but,  though  she 
did  not  understand  it,  it  left  her  in  doleful 
uncertainty  in  regard  to  her  plans.  She 
sighed,  and  turned  the  subject  by  asking 
the  peddler  if  he  ever  thought  that  maybe 
he  was  dreaming. 

"  Huh  ?  "  said  the  man,  slapping  a  rein 
on  Edward's  back,  and  turning  the  puzzled 
benevolence  of  his  mild  eyes  upon  her. 

But  Ellen  found  it  hard  to  explain.  This 
thought  of  the  possible  unreality  of  the 
present  had  always  been  a  vague  terror, 


1 68  The  Story  of  a  Child 

for  it  usually  haunted  her  happiest  mo 
ments.  Suppose  it  was  all  a  dream,  —  her 
pleasant  life,  her  paper  dolls,  her  little 
teas  with  Lydia,  her  garden,  and  the  swing 
under  the  front  porch,  —  a  dream,  and  she 
really  a  poor  little  beggar,  about  to  awake 
to  hunger  and  cold  and  misery  ?  But  now, 
when  she  put  the  question  to  the  peddler, 
she  thought  how  happy  she  would  be  if  she 
awoke  and  found  this  a  dream ! 

"  I  only  meant,"  she  said,  trying  to  keep 
her  voice  from  trembling,  "  that  I  don't 
know  how  we  know  we  're  not  dreaming. 
Sometimes  I  think  I  '11  waken  up  and  find 
I  'm  —  a  Laplander,  all  dressed  up  in  skins, 
and  milking  reindeers,  and  living  in  a  tent ; 
or  "  —  Ellen  began  to  get  interested,  in 
spite  of  the  ache  in  her  heart  that  made 
talking  an  effort  —  "  or,  maybe,  a  Chinese 
baby,  in  a  cradle  all  painted  with  dragons, 
and  my  feet  squeezed  up." 

"Well,  I  swan  !"  said  the  peddler.  He 
looked  at  Ellen,  curiously;  it  occurred  to 
him  that  she  was  crazy. 


The  Story  of  a  Child  169 

"Don't  you  ever  think  those  things?" 
she  asked  eagerly. 

" Well,  now  thee  's  said  it,  —  I  dorit" 
the  man  admitted  gravely.  "  Poor  little 
tot  ! "  he  said  to  himself,  "  she  ain't  just 
right,  I  guess." 

"  Oh,  I  think  about  it  lots,"  Ellen  assured 
him.  "  Sometimes  I  think  "  —  this  in  a 
lowered  voice,  for  it  was  a  very  secret 
thought,  with  which  she  comforted  herself 
when  Betsey  Thomas  was  more  than  usu 
ally  aggravating,  and  which  she  had  never 
confided  even  to  Lydia — "  I  think  I  'm  the 
queen's  daughter,  and  when  I  wake  I  '11 
be  in  a  golden  palace.  And  then,  other 
times,  I  Ve  thought  that  it  was  n't  a 
dream,  but  only  that  it  was  a  secret  from 
me,  and  people  did  n't  want  me  to  know  I 
was  a  queen's  daughter,  yet.  They  wanted 
me  to  be  brought  up  in  a  republican  coun 
try,  you  know.  But  I  '11  be  sent  for  when 
I  'm  eighteen,  and  all  the  prime  ministers 
and  grand  viziers  and  congressmen  will 
come,  and  kneel  down,  and  say,  'You're  a 


i  jo  The  Story  of  a  Child 

princess,  and  here  's  your  crown  ! ' '  El 
len's  face  had  cleared,  as  if  some  morning 
wind  had  blown  away  the  clouds  of  a 
spring  dawn.  "Just  think!"  she  cried; 
"  would  n't  it  be  splendid  !  My  !  " 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  peddler,  "I  guess 
th'  folks  don't  find  the  handlin'  of  thee  real 
easy  ?  There,  now,  sissy,  it  ain't  healthy 
to  have  them  dreams.  Did  n't  thy  ma 
ever  tell  thee  so  ?  " 

"  My  mother  's  gone  to  heaven,  and  so 
has  my  father,"  said  Ellen.  "I  live  with 
grandmother."  She  turned  her  head  away 
with  a  confused  look.  The  fact  that  she 
was  an  orphan  was  not  at  all  a  grief  to 
Ellen,  for  she  did  not  remember  her  par 
ents,  but  it  was  an  embarrassment;  it 
meant  that  she  needed  the  prayers  of  the 
Church,  and  the  clause  "protect  and  pro 
vide  for  all  fatherless  children"  made  her, 
every  Sunday,  turn  hot  and  red  at  the 
publicity  of  her  condition.  She  was  re 
lieved  when  the  peddler  requested  Edward 
to  stop,  and  observed  that  it  was  time  for 
dinner. 


The  Story  of  a  Child  777 

She  brightened,  and  immediately  felt 
that  life  was  real.  It  was  after  three,  and 
she  was  positively  faint  with  hunger. 
They  drew  up  on  the  shady  side  of  the 
road,  and  she  watched  the  peddler  hang 
a  battered  canvas  bag  full  of  oats  about 
Edward's  neck ;  then  he  went  around  to 
the  back  of  the  wagon  to  reach  his 
kitchen. 

"  I  'm  goin'  to  cook  my  dinner,"  he  said. 
His  spectacles  had  such  a  friendly  gleam 
that  Ellen  felt  happier,  in  spite  of  that 
weight  upon  her  heart.  But  the  moment 
of  return  seemed  very  near  ! 

" There's  an  open  place  back  in  there, 
under  the  trees,  nice  and  grassy ;  I  call  it 
the  restaurant.  I  always  cook  there  when 
I  go  by  this  way.  There  's  a  spring,  too. 
Edward,  he  stays  by,  to  mind  the  cart." 

He  lifted  out  a  queer  little  stove,  and 
then  a  frying-pan  and  a  sauce-pan,  and  a 
basket  in  which  seemed  to  be  various  arti 
cles  of  food.  "  May  be  thee  'd  like  to  look 
at  a  book  for  a  while,"  he  said,  "  until  thee 
gits  th'  own  dinner  ?  " 


1 72  The  Story  of  a  Child 

He  handed  Ellen  a  pamphlet  bound  in 
yellow  paper,  and  then  pushed  the  bushes 
aside  and  disappeared  into  the  woods. 
Ellen  looked  listlessly  at  the  cover  of  the 
book,  on  which  was  a  print  of  a  lady  in  blue, 
with  feathers  in  her  hair,  and  a  gentleman 
in  red,  with  a  sword ;  she  was  wondering- 
how  soon  the  dinner  would  be  cooked. 
The  peddler  did  not  come  back.  There 
was  only  Edward,  flinging  up  his  head  oc 
casionally  and  crunching  his  oats,  to  keep 
her  company.  The  wagon  had  been  drawn 
up  close  to  the  roadside,  so  that  other 
vehicles  might  pass,  but  there  were  none 
in  sight ;  the  woods  on  either  side  were 
thick  and  still ;  a  rod  away  a  thread  of 
water  fell  with  a  musical  sound  from  a 
hollowed  log  into  a  rusty  iron  caldron. 
Edward  glanced  at  it  patiently  once  or 
twice.  It  made  Ellen  thirsty,  the  faint 
gleam  and  drip  and  bubbling  sound,  but 
she  dared  not  leave  the  cart  to  get  a  drink, 
lest  the  peddler  might  return  to  say  that 
dinner  was  ready. 


The  Story  of  a  Child 

As  she  sat  there  a  savory  smell  of  cook 
ing  came  through  the  bushes  ;  it  was  really 
very  hard  to  wait  so  long.  She  tried  to 
forget  her  hunger  by  reading  the  little 
book.  It  was  the  story  in  rhyme  of  Lord 
Belchan  and  Lady  Susey  Pye.  The  pic 
tures  were  rough  prints,  in  the  primary 
colors,  of  lords  and  ladies,  parrots  and 
castles,  strange  ships  and  battles.  "  Lord 
Belchan,"  she  read  — 

"  Lord  Belchan  was  a  noble  lord, 

A  noble  lord  of  high  degree, 

And  he  determined  to  go  abroad, 

Strange  countries  for  to  see  !  " 

But  Ellen  was  too  hungry  to  be  inter 
ested.  She  began  to  wonder  whether  the 
peddler  had  forgotten  her.  At  last  she 
could  bear  it  no  longer,  and,  climbing  down 
from  the  cart,  she  went  timidly  into  the 
woods.  It  was  so  dark  and  shadowy  under 
the  trees,  that  for  an  instant  she  did  not 
see  the  peddler,  sitting,  his  arms  clasped 
about  his  knees,  gazing  anxiously  in  her 
direction.  A  look  of  relief  came  into  his 


174  The  Story  of  a  Child 

face,  followed  by  an  affectation  of  vast 
indifference. 

"  Well,  sissy,"  he  said,  "  has  thee  had 
th'  dinner  ? " 

"  My  dinner  !  "  Ellen  faltered.  "  Why  — 
I " —  She  stood  quite  still,  looking  at  him, 
her  little  chin  quivering  —  and  her  eyes 
filling.  It  was  more  than  those  kindly 
spectacles  could  stand.  "  There,  now ; 
well,  well ;  come,  child,  eat  a  bit,  he/re.  I 
don't  mind  givin'  thee  a  little ;  though  it 
ain't  what 's  done  in  the  world.  It 's 
everybody  fer  themselves  —  when  a  lady 
or  gentleman  don't  have  no  use  fer  friends, 
and  has  left  'em  !  Course,  thee  knows  it 
ain't  nothin'  to  me  ef  thee 's  hungry.  I 
only  look  out  for  myself."  He  turned  his 
back  upon  the  child,  for  he  could  not 
bear  those  slow,  rolling  tears,  and  he 
heaped  a  tin  plate  with  a  queer  combina 
tion  of  fried  meat  and  potatoes.  "  Eat 
that,"  he  said  gruffly  ;  and  then,  with  in 
stant  softening,  "  There,  now,  sissy  !  But 
't  ain't  like  home  :  I  was  just  pointin'  that 
out  to  thee,  that's  all." 


The  Story  of  a  Child  775 

Ellen  silently  took  the  tin  plate  and 
began  to  eat. 

"  Of  course,"  the  peddler  said,  "of 
course  thee  must  n't  expect,  after  this, 
folks  thee 's  got  no  claim  on  will  feed 
thee,  now  thee  's  got  shut  of  th'  friends. 
Thee  knows  the  Good  Book  allows  that  if 
a  man  don't  do  his  own  peddling,  he  ain't 
to  eat.  But  thee's  free,  and  of  course 
it's  fine  to  be  free." 

"  I  have  my  bank,  sir,  and  I  '11  pay  you 
for  my  dinner,"  said  Ellen,  a  trembling 
dignity  in  her  voice  ;  "  and  I  guess  I  '11  go 
now." 

"  Go  ? "  said  the  peddler ;  "  thee  means 
to  Mercer  ?  Well,  Edward  an'  I  '11  be  jog- 
gin'  on  soon,  and  we  '11  take  thee." 

Ellen  did  not  answer.  Oh,  how  could 
she  get  away  from  this  dreadful  man,  who 
was  dragging  her  to  Mercer  ?  The 
friendly  feeling  that  had  accompanied  her 
confidences,  faded ;  "  I  wont  go  to  Mer 
cer  ! "  she  thought ;  and  experienced  the 
relief  of  being  angry  at  somebody  else  for 


ij6  The  Story  of  a  Child 

her  own  wrong-doing,  a  relief  often  sought 
by  sinners  of  more  advanced  years. 

The  peddler  had  gone  out  into  the  road 
to  water  Edward,  but  came  back  again  and 
sat  down  on  the  soft  forest  grass  between 
the  roots  of  a  great  chestnut.  "  We  '11  rest 
a  bit  on  Edward's  account,"  he  said,  "  and 
then  we  '11  go  on.  I  believe  I  '11  just  shut 
my  eyes  for  about  five  minutes." 

He  stretched  himself  out  on  the  ground, 
and,  putting  the  felt  hat  over  his  eyes, 
crossed  his  hands  upon  his  breast.  He 
was  chuckling  to  himself  over  this  adven 
ture  with  a  runaway  child,  and  planning, 
with  an  imagination  as  fertile  as  Ellen's 
own,  the  delight  of  her  family  when  he 
should  return  her,  safe  and  sound,  which 
he  meant  to  do  about  six  o'clock.  "  I  can't 
shunt  off  no  customer  fer  the  little  tot," 
he  reflected,  "  but  I  '11  get  her  home  by  six. 
I  guess  her  grandma '11  be  a  good  customer 
after  this." 

The  cooking -stove  stood  in  the  little 
plot  of  forest  grass,  with  the  untidy  tin 


The  Story  of  a  Child  777 

plates  resting  on  its  cooling  top  ;  a  spring, 
bubbling  up  between  some  flat  stones, 
chattered  to  itself ;  a  bird  piped  in  the 
tree  overhead,  and  then  came  fluttering 
down  into  the  open  space.  It  looked  with 
bright,  quick  eyes  at  Ellen,  sitting  in  her 
miserable  heart-sick  silence,  and  then 
hopped  across  the  little  glade,  where  the 
shadows  lay  like  a  lattice  upon  moss 
and  grass,  and  began  to  peck  at  the 
scraps  of  food  on  the  plates.  Through 
the  bushes  Ellen  could  see  Edward's  ears 
twitching  now  and  then,  and  the  rusty 
canvas  of  the  cart.  Into  the  wood  quiet 
came  the  sharp  sound  of  trotting  hoofs, 
and  then  an  instant's  glimpse  of  a  man 
on  horseback.  It  brought  her  heart  up 
into  her  throat ;  he  came,  whoever  he  was, 
from  that  world  which  she  had  left.  Oh, 
if  she  could  catch  him,  —  if  she  could  make 
him  take  her  home  ! 

The  inevitable  moment  had  come. 

The  peddler  slept  tranquilly.  Silently, 
like  a  little  thief,  Ellen  rose,  and  stepped 


The  Story  of  a  Child 

stealthily  across  the  grass.  The  bird,  star 
tled,  dashed  up  into  the  greenery  over 
head,  but  the  peddler  never  stirred.  As 
she  gained  the  road,  Edward,  standing 
with  patient  bowed  head,  cocked  one  gray 
ear  at  the  rustle  of  the  leaves,  but,  not 
seeing  his  master,  drowsed  again. 

Ellen,  terrified  lest  she  might  hear  a 
step  crashing  through  the  underbrush  be 
hind  her,  fled  like  a  hare  down  the  road 
in  the  direction  in  which  the  man  on  horse 
back  had  gone ;  she  would  catch  him,  she 
said  to  herself,  and  then  beg  him  to  take 
her  home.  She  ran,  poor  child,  until  it 
seemed  as  though  the  beating  in  her 
throat  would  suffocate  her ;  and  then,  ex 
hausted,  she  fell  down  on  the  grass  beside 
the  road.  She  had  run,  of  course,  a  very 
short  distance,  but  she  thought  that  she 
had  covered  miles.  As  soon  as  she  could 
get  her  breath,  she  remembered  that  if  she 
stopped,  the  peddler,  assisted  by  Edward, 
would  quickly  overtake  her.  And  yet  she 
could  not  run  any  farther.  If  she  crept 


The  Story  of  a  Child  779 

behind  the  bushes  at  the  roadside,  he 
surely  could  not  see  her,  should  he  pass  ? 
So  she  pushed  through  some  underbrush, 
climbed  a  fence,  and  reached  a  wide 
meadow.  There,  lying  down  on  the  grass 
near  some  bushes,  she  said  to  herself  that 
she  would  rest  a  little  while,  and  then  start 
again  for  home. 


XIII 

THE  child  was  so  tired  that  scarcely  had 
her  head  touched  the  grass  than  she 
fell  fast  asleep,  —  too  soundly  to  hear  the 
peddler  calling  her,  anxiously,  his  voice  pa 
thetic  with  mortification  that  he  had  let 
her  slip  away  from  him  ;  too  soundly,  also, 
even  to  dream  of  the  dismay  and  anxiety 
in  the  home  she  had  left. 

Mrs.  Dale's  headache,  which  had  kept 
her  awake  nearly  all  night,  yielded  after 
she  had  had  her  coffee  and  sent  her  mes 
sage  to  Ellen,  and  faded  into  an  exhausted 
slumber  which  lasted  until  noon.  Betsey 
Thomas,  who  at  first  was  full  of  pity  for 
the  naughty  child,  began  to  resent  her 
obstinacy,  fearing  that  presently  she  her- 
180 


Tie  Story  of  a  Child  181 

self  weuld  be  blamed  for  a  contretemps 
which  would  not  have  come  about  save 
for  her  well-meant  interference.  This 
half-frightened  resentment  made  her  keep 
to  herself  the  fact  that  Ellen's  dinner- 
tray  had  not  been  touched.  "  I  ain't  a-goin' 
to  be  blamed  if  Ellen  sets  up  to  be  obsti 
nate  about  her  victuals,"  she  said  to  her 
self  sulkily.  But  a  little  later,  when  she 
caught  a  glimpse  of  Effie  Temple  wan 
dering  about  in  the  orchard,  her  sense  of 
justice,  to  say  nothing  of  her  desire  to 
excuse  herself,  made  her  say  to  the  cook 
that  she  "had  a  mind  to  tell  Mrs.  Dale 
that  that  hateful  little  girl  put  our  Ellen 
up  to  all  her  badness."  She  "believed 
that  in  her  soul,"  she  said ;  and  she  added 
also  her  opinion  that  Effie  was  "just 
hanging  around  to  see  if  she  could  n't  see 
our  Ellen." 

She  was  quite  right.  Effie's  first  inter 
est  in  the  adventure  had  worn  off,  and  she 
was  getting  frightened  ;  she  tried  to  com 
fort  herself  by  the  assurance  that  as  soon 


182  The  Story  of  a  Child 

as  it  was  all  "found  out "  she  would  say,  "  I 
told  her  not  to  go  !  "  She  had  a  faint  hope 
that  Ellen's  resolution  had  given  out  and 
she  had  returned,  so  sent  a  note  over  the 
"  telegraph,"  which  had  often  borne  more 
harmful  messages  ;  but  there  was  no  an 
swer.  Then  she  grew  angry ;  she  said  to 
herself  that  she  hated  Ellen.  Thoroughly 
frightened,  she  felt  a  frantic  desire  to 
blame  some  one,  so  it  was  a  comfort  to  see 
Lydia  Wright  walking  sedately  along  the 
gravel  path  away  from  Mrs.  Dale's  front 
door. 

Effie  hailed  her  imperiously,  but  with 
some  mystery  in  her  manner.  "  Stop  !  I 
want  to  speak  to  you,"  she  said. 

It  was  half  past  two.  Lydia,  looking 
like  a  little  clove  pink  in  her  white  sun- 
bonnet,  which  pressed  her  shining  curls 
close  against  her  round  cheeks,  had  come 
over  to  say  to  Mrs.  Dale,  "  Mother's  love, 
and  may  Ellen  come  and  spend  the  after 
noon  and  take  tea  ?  "  She  stopped  at  Ef- 
fie's  command.  "  I  came  to  invite  Ellen  to 


The  Story  of  a  Child  183 

tea,"  she  explained,  nervously  rolling  the 
strings  of  her  sunbonnet,  "  but  Betsey 
Thomas  says  she  is  n't  allowed  to  go  out." 
Euphemia  Temple  had  never  seemed  to 
Lydia  more  alarming. 

"  I  guess  Betsey  Thomas  does  n't  know 
what  she  's  talking  about !  And  I  guess 
if  you  'd  been  nicer  to  Ellen  it  would  n't 
have  happened."  Effie  was  almost  in 
tears.  Lydia  was  too  astonished  to  defend 
herself  or  ask  an  explanation.  "  If  you  '11 
promise  never  to  tell,  I  '11  tell  you  some 
thing,"  Effie  ended  ;  "will  you  promise  ?  " 

"Yes,"  Lydia  answered.  "Only  — 
don't." 

Effie's  imperative  agitation  terrified  her 
so  that  her  only  thought  was  flight. 
"You've  got  to  hear;  it's  your  fault," 
Effie  said  sternly.  "  Promise  you  '11  never 
tell  ? " 

<l  I  promise,"  said  Lydia,  shaking. 

"  Say,  'hope  I  may  die  if  I  do.'  " 

"  '  Hope  I  may  die/  "  Lydia  stammered. 

"Ellen  has  run  away  !  " 


184  The  Stow  °f  a 

Lydia  gazed  at  her  with  horrified  eyes, 
speechless. 

"  You  promised  not  to  tell,"  Effie  threat 
ened. 

«  I  —  I  —  I  won't,"  said  Lydia. 

"  Now  go  home  !  "  cried  Effie,  with  sud 
den  rage.  "  If  you  'd  been  nicer  to  her, 
she  would  n't  have  —  It 's  your  fault ! " 

Lydia  turned  and  fled,  appalled  at  the 
news  and  at  the  responsibility  of  know 
ledge,  but  never  doubting  that  she  must 
keep  her  promise. 

Effie,  meantime,  experienced  no  relief 
from  her  burst  of  confidence. 

That  there  was  something  on  her  mind 
might  have  been  guessed,  had  it  not  been 
that  other  members  of  the  family  seemed 
to  have  something  on  their  minds,  also ; 
her  aunt  was  nervous  and  absorbed;  her 
mother  plainly  irritable. 

"  Everybody's  crazy  !"  Effie  decla'red, 
when  Miss  Dace  assured  her  that  she  had 
never  seen  such  a  troublesome  little  girl ; 
"  everybody  's  crazy !  You  make  such  a 


The  Story  of  a  Child  185 

fuss  about  your  old  declensions  ;  and  aunty 
says  she  is  going  down  to  mail  a  letter  in 
stead  of  sending  Jim  to  do  it,  and  coming 
out  to  play  croquet  with  me ;  and  mamma 
scolds  if  you  look  at  her  !  " 

"  Why  don't  you  go  and  see  why  Ellen 
wasn't  here  this  morning?"  Miss  Dace 
suggested  wearily. 

"Oh,  I  hate  everybody!"  Erne  re 
sponded,  with  angry  irrelevance.  Then 
she  tried  again  to  coax  her  aunt  to  play 
croquet. 

"  I  can't,  Effie,  dear,"  Miss  Jane  said 
nervously.  "  I  must  go  down  to  the  post- 
office." 

"  You  said  that  an  hour  ago  ;  you  could 
have  mailed  sixty  letters  by  this  time. 
Why  don't  you  make  Jim  mail  your  old 
letter  ?  or  why  don't  you  go,  and  come 
back?  You  just  talk!  Goodness!"  said 
Effie,  and  stamped,  for  want  of  any  better 
way  of  expressing  her  angry  fright. 

"Whydfo;/'/  I  go?"  Miss  Jane  said  to 
herself.  Her  letter  was  stamped  and  ad- 


1 86  The  Story  of  a  CUld 

dressed,  though  with  nothing  more  defi 
nite  as  a  direction  than  "Philadelphia." 
"  There  's  nothing  really  personal  in  it," 
she  reasoned,  thinking  of  its  contents.  "  I 
will  mail  it ! "  and  she  started  for  the  vil 
lage.  She  had  done  as  much  as  start, 
early  in  the  morning,  but  she  had  turned 
back,  and  the  letter  was  still  unmailed. 
"  I  '11  wait  and  send  it  by  the  evening 
stage,"  she  said.  A  dozen  times  that  day, 
she  put  her  hand  into  her  pocket  to  de 
stroy  it,  but  each  time  she  touched  it  she 
said,  "  No,  there  is  no  harm  in  sending  it ; 
and  probably  it  won't  reach  him,  anyhow. 
And  if  it  did,  it  does  n't  mean  anything. 
No,  there  is  no  harm  in  sending  it.  But 
I  won't  mail  it  until  to-night." 

Four  o'clock  came,  and  Miss  Jane  Tem 
ple  said  to  herself,  "  It  must  not  go  ;  I  '11 
tear  it  up."  She  took  the  letter  out  and 
looked  at  it.  "  No,  not  yet.  But  I  won't 
mail  it ;  it  would  be  foolish,"  she  sighed  to 
herself,  "and  it  would  never  reach  him." 

Jane  Temple's  heart  beat  so  fast  that 


The  Story  of  a  Child  187 

she  had  a  suffocated  feeling,  and  went  to 
the  window  for  a  breath  of  air.  Effie  was 
on  the  croquet  ground.  Miss  Jane  could 
hear  the  sharp  click  of  the  balls,  as  the 
child  knocked  them  idly  about.  Somehow, 
the  sight  of  Effie  sent  a  wave  of  resolu 
tion  to  her  heart.  There  was  no  reason 
why  she  should  not  send  her  letter,  why 
she  should  not  have  a  happiness  of  her 
own,  have  friends  and  interests  of  her 
own.  "I  have  a  right  to  my  own  life!" 
she  said  to  herself  again.  She  had  a  curi 
ous  instant  of  something  like  hate  for  all 
this  comfortable  household.  She  opened 
the  bottom  drawer  of  the  chest  of  drawers 
and  took  out  the  green  crape  shawl ;  as 
she  touched  it  she  felt  suddenly  cour 
ageous,  and  she  put  it  over  her  shoulders 
with  the  thrill  of  one  who  buckles  on  his 
armor  for  a  battle ;  and  then  she  started 
for  the  post-office.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
green  shawl  lying  like  a  vine  upon  her 
white  dress  that  caught  Effie's  eye,  for 
she  ran  across  the  lawn  to  her  aunt's  side. 


1 88  The  Story  of  a  Child 

"  Why,  you  've  got  that  horrid  shawl 
on !  "  she  commented.  She  had  to  say 
something  disagreeable  or  burst  into 
tears.  "  It's  hideous!" 

"  Don't,  Effie,"  said  Miss  Jane  coldly, 
"don't  hang  on  my  hand  that  way." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  Oh,  how  hor 
rid  everything  is  ! " 

"  To  the  village  ;  you  had  better  go  and 
get  dressed  for  tea." 

"  I  'm  going  to  the  village  with  you." 

Miss  Jane  was  silent.  She  wished  she 
could  make  Effie  obey  her,  but  she  was  too 
exhausted  to  try. 

"Why don't  you  go  to  see  Ellen?"  she 
said ;  she  made  up  her  mind  not  to  mail 
the  letter  in  Effie's  presence. 

Effie  opened  her  lips  to  reply,  and  then 
stopped  and  stamped  her  foot.  "I  —  I  — 
I  hate  her  ! "  she  said.  The  tears  rushed 
to  her  eyes. 

"  Why,  Effie  !  how  can  you  speak  so  ? 
Have  you  and  Ellen  quarreled  ?  You 
should  never  say  you  hate  any  one." 


The  Story  of  a  Child  189 

"  I  hate,  hate,  hate  her  ! "  Effie  sobbed, 
with  all  the  pent-up  fright  of  the  day. 
"  She 's  a  bad,  horrid  girl ;  she  's  run  away 
from  home.  Oh,  my  !  is  n't  she  wicked  ? 
I  should  n't  think  you  'd  want  me  to  know 
such  a  girl." 

Miss  Jane  Temple,  with  her  fingers 
touching  the  letter  in  her  pocket,  stood 
still  with  astonishment.  "  What  do  you 
mean  ? " 

"  It  is  n't  my  fault.  I  told  her  not  to.  I 
said,  *  Ellen,  you  ought  n't  to  run  away.' 
And  she  was  mad  because  I  would  n't  go. 
She  wanted  me  to  run  away,  too !  I 
would  n't  do  such  a  thing.  She 's  a  dread 
ful  girl !  I  don't  want  to  live  in  this  awful 
hole  of  an  Old  Chester  when  she  comes 
back." 

Miss  Jane  took  Efrle's  hands  from  her 
face  and  held  them  in  hers.  "Tell  me 
every  single  thing,"  she  commanded.  And 
Effie  told  her  version. 

And  so  it  happened  that  it  was  nearly 
five  o'clock  before  Miss  Jane  Temple,  hur- 


190  The  Story  of  a  Child 

rying  through  the  gardens,  came  to  disturb 
the  peace  of  the  Dale  household.  She 
could  not  stop  to  mail  the  letter,  and  her 
pang  of  disappointment  showed  her  how 
entirely  she  had  meant  to  do  it,  despite  all 
those  hesitations. 

Mrs.  Dale  had  left  her  bedroom  late  in 
the  afternoon  ;  her  head  was  better,  but 
her  heart  ached.  No  word  from  Ellen  ! 
What  should  she  do  with  this  rebellious 
child  ?  Her  anxiety  was  full  of  self-exam 
ination.  Wherein  had  she  failed,  that  this 
extraordinary  defiance  was  possible  ?  She 
did  not  feel  strong  enough  to  read  ;  nor 
could  she  put  her  mind  upon  anything  ex 
cept  this  present  pain,  which  held  in  it  all 
the  pain  of  the  past,  all  the  old  puzzle  and 
despair.  "  He  had  this  same  persistency 
in  doing  what  he  knew  was  wrong,"  she 
was  thinking  ;  "  my  remonstrances  only 
made  things  worse.  Perhaps  he  would 
have  been  better  without  me  ?  perhaps 
the  child  would  be  better  without  me ! 
Oh,  how  can  I  meet  my  son  in  heaven,  if  I 


The  Story  of  a  Child  191 

fail  with  Ellen  !  "  Mrs.  Dale's  hands  were 
lying  idle  in  her  lap,  and  her  face  was  full 
of  the  old  misery,  and  the  new  anxiety, 
when  Miss  Jane  Temple  came  breathlessly 
through  the  hall,  and  stood  a  moment, 
hesitating,  in  the  doorway. 

"  Mrs.  Dale,"  she  began,  in  an  agitated 
voice,  "  I  came  to  inquire  about  Ellen.  Is 
she  in  her  room  ?  I  "  — 

Mrs.  Dale  was  annoyed.  "  Pray  sit 
down,  Jane.  You  are  very  good,  I  'm  sure. 
Ellen  has  been  troublesome,  and  I  think 
it  best  for  her  to  keep  her  room."  She 
smiled  formally.  It  was  not  the  habit  in 
Old  Chester  for  one  disciplinarian  to  crit 
icise  another ;  perhaps  because  they  all 
followed  the  same  methods. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  seem  to  intrude,"  said 
Miss  Jane,  her  words  broken  with  haste, 
"but  Effie  has  just  told  me  that — that 
—  I  fear  you  do  not  know  Ellen's  frame 
of  mind  —  she  —  Effie  "  - 

"My  dear  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Dale,  sitting 
up  very  straight,  a  little  color  coming  into 


/92  The  Story  of  a  Child 

her  face,  "you  are  needlessly  concerned. 
And  Euphemia  ?  You  know  in  Old  Ches 
ter  a  child's  opinions  are  of  no  possible 
importance.  I  really  think  you  make  a 
mistake  in  encouraging  her  to  talk/' 

"Oh,  dear  Mrs.  Dale,"  Jane  Temple 
burst  out,  "Ellen  has  run  away /"  Miss 
Jane  was  crying,  and  twisting  her  fingers 
together.  "  I  'm  sure  it 's  all  Effie's  fault, 
but  oh,  what  shall  we  do  ? " 

"  Ellen  ?  Nonsense  !  "  Mrs.  Dale  almost 
laughed.  "  Now,  that  comes  of  listening 
to  Effie's  talk.  Really,  it  is  a  mistake.  It 
has  never  been  the  practice  in  Old"  — 

"  Indeed,  I  'm  afraid  something  's  wrong. 
Won't  you  send  upstairs  and  see  ?  Effie 
said  she  went  away  this  morning  at  nine, 
and  it 's  after  five  !  Oh,  do  send  upstairs 
and  see ! " 

In  spite  of  herself,  Mrs.  Dale  felt  sud 
denly  apprehensive.  "  Of  course,  if  you 
wish  it.  Will  you  touch  that  bell,  if  you 
please  ?  But  it  is  absurd.  Your  Euphemia 
might  do  such  a  thing,  Jane  Temple,  but  a 


TJje  Story  of  a  Child  1 93 

child  brought  up  in —  Betsey  Thomas, 
step  upstairs,  if  you  please,  and  tell  Ellen 
that  I  say  she  may  go  out  in  the  garden 
for  a  little  walk  before  tea.  Pray,  Jane, 
control  yourself ;  it  is  not  proper  that  the 
child  should  see  you  so  much  agitated." 

Miss  Jane  sank  down  upon  the  sofa, 
her  breath  coming  quickly,  and  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  parlor  door.  Mrs.  Dale 
waited  in  annoyed  silence.  Really,  Eu- 
phemia  Temple  was  a  most  objectionable 
child  ;  this  acquaintance  must  end  at 
once.  It  occurred  to  her,  with  a  vague 
comfort,  that  Ellen's  naughtiness  was 
owing  to  Effie's  influence. 

"  I  'm  sorry  to  say  it,  Jane,"  she  began 
majestically,  "  but  I  think  I  must  not  allow 
Ellen  to  see  so  much  of  Euphemia ;  Eu- 
phemia  has  been  brought  up  so  differently 
that"- 

A  door  slammed  in  the  upper  hall,  there 
was  a  rush  downstairs,  and  Betsey  Thomas 
bounced  into  the  parlor.  "She's  not 
there !  Ellen  's  not  there  !  " 


XIV 

THE  elderberry  bushes  under  which 
Ellen  had  fallen  asleep  fringed  a  wide 
meadow.  It  had  been  mowed  a  week  be 
fore,  but  when  she  awoke,  the  faint  glow 
in  the  west  where  the  sun  had  set,  tinged 
its  rough  stubble  and  made  it  look  as  soft 
as  though  it  were  still  deep  with  timothy 
grass.  She  sat  up,  stiff  and  tired,  and 
wondering  for  a  moment  where  she  was. 
Oh,  yes,  she  remembered.  The  peddler  ! 
She  listened,  breathless,  for  the  sound  of 
wheels  and  Edward's  plodding  step.  But 
everything  was  still. 

The  yellow  light  behind  the  dark  line  of 
the   hills  was   melting   into  violet    dusk ; 
the   long   shadows,   which    had    stretched 
194 


The  Story  of  a  Child  795 

across  the  field  when  she  first  opened  her 

eyes,    were   fading   and    fading   into   the 

great  soft  shadow  of  night.      Everything 

seemed  to  be  asleep,  and  she,  of  all  the 

big  world,  awake.     She  listened,   till  her 

own  pulses  jarred  the  stillness.     Not  even 

a    rustling    leaf    spoke    beside   her ;    the 

soundless    dark    held   her    in    its    centre. 

Then,    suddenly,    at    her    feet,    a    cricket 

chirped,    and   the   silence,    like   a    sphere 

of  clear  black  glass,  shivered  and  broke ! 

She  heard  the  grass  where  she  had  been 

lying   lift   itself  with  a   brushing  sound  ; 

she  heard  the  snap  of  a  twig  under  foot  ; 

she    caught    the    soft    nestling    of    some 

sleeping  birds  in  the  bushes  behind  her; 

the  spell  of  silence  was  broken,  and  she 

drew  a   free   breath.     How  late    it  was  ! 

The  thought  of  her  little  bedroom  flashed 

into    her   mind ;   her   white   bed,    Betsey 

waiting  to  take  the  candle  away  ;  a  wave  of 

home-sickness  made  her  feel  faint.     She 

must  go  home  !  she  must  run  ;  it  would  soon 

be  too  dark  to  see  where  she  was  going. 


ig6  The  Story  of  a  Child 

But  in  that  long,  deep  sleep  she  had  lost 
her  bearings.  She  started,  keeping  in  the 
fields  that  skirted  a  road  which  led,  she 
thought,  to  Old  Chester  ;  on  and  on  she 
walked,  farther  and  farther  from  home. 
Once  or  twice,  coming  upon  a  marsh  or 
a  wide  shallow  run,  she  turned  into  the 
road  ;  but  she  ran  then,  quivering  with 
fear  until  she  could  get  back  into  the 
meadows,  for  there  the  tranquil  hush  of 
night  did  not  frighten  her.  Once,  a 
faint  glitter  in  a  dark  pool  caught  her 
eye,  and,  glancing  up  through  the  birch- 
trees,  she  saw  the  moon  looking  at  her 
between  the  leaves  ;  after  that,  shadows 
began  to  grow  out  of  the  darkness,  and 
the  field  glimmered  like  a  silver  shield ; 
under  the  trees  black  caverns  seemed  to 
open  and  yawn  ;  perhaps  there  were  drag 
ons  in  them  !  She  instantly  flew  out  into 
the  open  moonlight,  her  heart  beating 
fiercely  ;  she  knew  there  were  no  dragons 
in  the  shadowy  lairs,  but  that  did  not 
keep  her  from  being  horribly  afraid  of 


The  Story  of  a  Child  797 

them.  After  a  while,  walking  on,  well 
away  from  trees  and  bushes  and  shadows, 
she  grew  less  frightened ;  she  became 
vaguely  conscious  of  the  companionship 
of  the  kind,  silent  earth,  with  its  intimate 
sky  clasping  it  like  a  dark  hand  jeweled 
by  the  moon  and  stars.  A  sense  of  com 
fort  and  security  came  over  her, — an 
ebbing  of  identity ;  fear  and  penitence 
fell  away  from  her  like  heavy  weights.  It 
was  as  though  the  little  human  creature 
vibrated  with  the  sonorous  rhythmic 
march  of  the  whole,  and  could  not  know 
so  small  a  thing  as  self. 

Once  she  lay  down,  and  looked  up  into 
the  clear  moon-flooded  depths,  and  into 
the  broad  kind  face  of  the  moon  itself. 
She  thought  that  children  who  could  lie 
on  their  mothers'  knees  must  feel  as  she 
did,  now,  lying  here  in  the  warm  still 
fields,  lying  on  the  earth's  friendly  lap, 
safe,  and  warm,  and  cared  for,  swinging 
among  the  stars  !  she  was  sure  she  should 
be  taken  care  of  ;  she  wondered,  with  not 


198  The  Story  of  a  Child 

too  keen  an  interest,  what  the  moon  was 
saying  to  the  listening  earth  ?  She  sighed 
with  comfort.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she 
would  never  get  up,  but  lie  here,  like  a 
little  mound,  that  would  melt  somehow 
into  the  field  and  the  grass.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  pagan  in  the  child,  this  instinct 
for  the  Great  Mother ;  very  simply,  with 
out  knowing  why,  there  in  the  silence  and 
peace  she  knelt  down  and  laid  her  cheek 
against  the  earth,  and  kissed  it  softly. 
Then  she  rose  and  trudged  on  in  the 
moonlight. 

But  suddenly  she  was  stung  into  alert 
ness  ;  a  house  loomed  up  ahead  of  her. 
Then,  instantly,  she  was  afraid !  Her 
heart  pounded  as,  giving  one  flying  look 
of  terror  over  her  shoulder,  she  ran 
towards  it.  A  picket  fence  inclosed  the 
farmhouse  from  its  wider  garden,  making 
that  small  dooryard  which  country  people 
love.  Ellen  had  a  glimpse  of  the  room 
within  :  a  woman  beside  a  table,  sewing ; 
a  man  stretched  out  in  a  rocking-chair, 


The  Story  of  a  Child  199 

asleep-;  the  top  of  a  cradle  rocking 
drowsily  to  and  fro.  It  was  not  an  espe 
cially  attractive  interior,  but  it  was  human, 
and  seeing  it,  Ellen  knew  once  more  that 
she  was  disobedient  and  desolate,  and 
with  her  self-knowledge  came  back  the 
misery  which  she  had  lost  in  the  fields. 
The  hope  of  being  protected  and  taken 
home  made  the  weary  child  sob  with  joy. 
She  lifted  the  latch  of  the  gate,  when, 
suddenly,  a  dog  barked !  Ellen's  heart 
stood  still ;  she  tried  to  cry  out,  but  her 
voice  was  so  husky  with  fear  that  it  did 
not  seem  to  be  hers.  That  was  a  terrible 
moment.  A  strange  voice  from  her  own 
lips  ?  Who  was  she  ?  A  beggar  at  a 
farmer's  gate,  nothing  to  eat,  no  place  to 
sleep,  and  a  dog  barking  at  her !  She 
heard  the  creature  running,  bounding 
towards  her  from  the  farther  side  of  the 
house,  and  she  turned  and  flew  back 
towards  the  road.  The  steps  followed 
her,  and  a  quick  volley  of  barks,  and  then 
a  threatening  growl.  Ellen  sobbed  aloud 


200  The  Story  of  a  Child 

as  she  ran ;  it  seemed  to  her  that  she 
could  not  breathe,  and  the  dog  was  close 
upon  her,  she  thought.  She  caught  her 
foot,  and  fell  headlong  on  the  rough  stub 
ble.  She  was  too  exhausted  to  rise. 
Every  instant  she  thought  she  would  feel 
the  dog's  breath  on  her  neck ;  but  he  did 
not  come.  Yet  it  was  some  moments  be 
fore  she  had  the  courage  or  the  strength 
to  rise.  She  had  bruised  her  knee  on  the 
stiff,  newly-mown  grass,  and  it  hurt  her, 
which  gave  her  the  relief  of  a  new 
misery. 

She  started  again,  still  keeping  in  the 
fields,  and  walked  nearly  a  mile  before 
she  saw  another  light  gleam  out.  She 
stopped  and  looked  at  it.  There  was  a  barn 
near  the  road,  and  some  haystacks,  and  a 
stone's-throw  up  on  the  hillside  the  big 
balconied  farmhouse,  with  the  light  in  the 
window ;  it  stood  at  the  top  of  its  grape- 
trellised  terraces,  with  its  flagged  pave 
ment  under  the  lowest  balcony,  and  its 
comfortable  Dutch  exterior  inviting  her. 


The  Story  of  a  Child  201 

How  the  child  longed  to  go  and  knock  at 
the  door  !  But  she  only  stood  and  looked 
at  it  with  anguished  eyes.  The  remem 
brance  of  the  dog  was  too  dreadful  to  let 
her  think  for  a  moment  of  going  any 
nearer,  and  yet  she  could  not  go  quite 
away.  She  wondered  if  a  dog  at  the 
house  could  hear  her  breathing  down  here 
by  the  barn  ?  As  she  looked  towards  the 
spot  of  cheerful  light,  it  went  out.  That 
meant  that  the  farmer  and  his  wife  had 
gone  to  bed  ;  the  house  was  perfectly  dark. 
Ellen  turned  and  looked  at  the  barn ;  she 
might  go  in  there  ?  If  she  could  once  get 
in,  no  dog  could  hurt  her.  The  cows  and 
horses  seemed  like  friends  to  the  desolate 
child.  But  when,  very  softly,  she  put  her 
hands  on  the  big  doors,  she  found  they 
were  barred  on  the  inside  ;  she  heard  a 
long-drawn  sigh  from  within,  and  a  muffled 
stamp.  Oh,  how  comfortable  they  were, 
the  cows  and  horses  !  She  leaned  her 
cheek  against  the  door  for  a  long  time, 
and  listened ;  she  could  not  bear  to  go 


202  The  Story  of  a  Child 

away  from  these  friendly  creatures  and 
be  alone  again.  Once  or  twice  she  caught 
the  soft,  deep  breaths,  and  once  she  heard 
a  horse  biting  at  his  crib,  and  a  cow  strik 
ing  her  horns  against  the  stanchions.  But 
after  a  while  she  remembered  the  hay 
stacks  behind  the  barn,  and  thought  she 
would  go  to  one  of  them  and  rest  a  little, 
and  then,  if  she  could  get  her  courage  up 
to  the  point  of  going  off  alone  into  the 
night,  start  once  more  for  home. 

It  took  some  minutes  to  reach  the  yard 
behind  the  barn,  for  she  stopped  at  every 
step  to  listen,  but  once  there,  she  was 
glad  to  sit  down  and  lean  against  the  soft, 
sweet  hay  of  one  of  the  stacks  ;  she  even 
dug  out  a  little  shelter  for  herself,  and 
cuddled  into  the  small  hole  to  keep  warm, 
for  the  August  chill  had  crept  into  the 
night. 

The  full,  still  pour  of  the  'moon  filled 
the  barnyard  with  vaporous  light,  in  which 
the  shadow  of  the  haystack  lay  like  a 
black  pool.  The  pain  of  fright  still 


The  Story  of  a  Child  203 

gripped  Ellen's  heart ;  and  when  she  no 
ticed  that  the  pasture  in  front  of  her  was 
bare  and  free  from  rocks,  and  thought 
that  it  would  be  a  good  place  for  fairies 
to  dance,  she  banished  the  fancy,  with 
the  assertion  that  she  must  say  her 
prayers ;  perhaps  God  would  take  care 
of  her  if  she  said  her  prayers,  but  if  she 
thought  about  fairies  He  might  be  angry. 

"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep," 

she  began  to  repeat  rapidly,  squeezing 
her  eyes  tight  shut, 

"  I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep ; 
If  I  should  die  before  I  wake, 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  take. 

"  God  bless  grandmother,  and  make  me 
a  good  girl"  —  then  all  the  little  form 
which  she  had  used  ever  since  she  knew 
how  to  speak.  It  meant  nothing  to 
Ellen  ;  the  kiss  in  the  field  had  said  it  all. 
As  she  grew  warmer  here  in  the  hay, 
fatigue  blurred  her  fear.  Vague  thoughts 
of  the  fairies  came  unchallenged  to  her 
mind,  and  dim  recollections  of  her  old 


204  The  Story  of  a  Child 

life,  lived  so  long,  long  ago :  her  grand 
mother's  step  on  the  stairs  while  she  had 
been  waiting  to  escape  to  the  summer- 
house  to  meet  Effie.  Effie  ?  Why,  she 
had  forgotten  her  !  It  had  all  happened 
so  long  ago.  Yesterday  ?  The  word  had 
no  meaning  to  her.  Then  she  drifted  into 
thoughts  of  the  garden,  and  the  sunshine, 
and  the  hollyhock  ladies  ;  she  remembered 
the  little  teas  on  the  side  porch  when  her 
grandmother  had  allowed  her  to  invite 
Lydia,  and  had  had  cakes  baked  to  fit  her 
small  dishes  ;  yes,  she  and  Lydia  had 
played  together  long,  long  ago  ;  they  used 
to  meet  by  the  poplar-trees,  or  swing,  and 
talk,  and  watch  the  horse-hairs  turning 
into  snakes.  Suddenly,  the  ache  and 
misery  of  homesickness  surged  up  in  that 
spot  below  the  breastbone  where  the  soul 
seems  to  suffer.  Ellen  cried  hopelessly  ; 
she  could  not  imagine  that  she  should 
ever  be  at  home  again. 

The  pool  of  shadow  in  front  of  the  hay 
stack  lessened,  rippling  back  and  back  like 


The  Story  of  a  Child  205 

a  falling  tide.  The  moon  had  climbed  up 
behind  the  barn,  and  began  to  peer  over 
the  shoulder  of  the  stack;  she  had  not 
the  same  expression  she  had  worn  in  the 
fields  ;  her  face  seemed  smaller,  and  she 
looked  coldly  down  on  the  child's  grief. 
Ellen  pulled  out  some  more  hay  and  bur 
rowed  farther  into  her  little  shelter. 

Into  the  midst  of  her  hopelessness 
came  the  sound  of  a  wagon  rattling  along 
the  road.  Ellen  saw  the  light  of  a  swing 
ing  lantern,  and  heard  voices,  but  no 
words.  "  It  must  be  robbers ! "  she 
thought,  pressing  in  against  the  hay  to 
hide  herself.  It  never  occurred  to  her 
that  it  might  be  some  one  searching  for 
her. 

After  a  while  she  slept,  and  then  awoke 
with  a  start.  There  was  a  soft,  slow  step 
in  the  barnyard.  The  pool  of  shadow 
before  her  had  ebbed  quite  away ;  the 
indifferent  moon  was  going  down,  sinking 
behind  the  hill ;  there  was  a  mist  lying 
like  white  gauze  over  the  ground.  Again 


206  The  Story  of  a  Child 

that  step,  and  the  strange,  shuffling  noise. 
Ellen  hardly  dared  breathe ;  It  was  not 
like  a  dog.  All  was  quiet  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then,  —  again  !  Something 
seemed  to  loom  up  in  the  misty  darkness, 
something  big  and  black;  something 
which  sighed,  close  to  Ellen's  face  !  Per 
haps  the  child  fainted  for  a  moment  in  her 
ghastly  fright,  for  there  seemed  to  be  a 
gap  of  vacancy ;  and  then  she  knew  that 
it  was  a  cow,  whose  gentle  and  astonished 
eyes  had  looked  into  hers,  and  who  had 
drawn  back  with  a  frightened  snort. 

After  that  Ellen  was  awake  for  a  long 
time ;  the  moon  had  quite  gone,  and  all 
the  world  was  wrapped  in  crystal  dark. 
The  cow  did  not  disturb  her  again,  al 
though  she  heard  the  big  creature  moving 
about.  Once,  far  off,  a  dog  barked.  "There 
must  be  robbers  ! "  she  said  to  herself, 
growing  cold  with  fear.  Then  every 
thing  was  still,  until  from  some  distant 
farm  came,  faint  and  thin,  through  the 
darkness,  a  cock-crow. 


The  Story  of  a  Child  207 

Ellen  thought  with  a  leap  of  her  heart 
that  it  must  be  nearly  morning;  but  the 
night  still  pressed  close  about  her.  Oh, 
would  it  never  end  ?  Again  she  slept, 
and  again  awoke  with  a  start. 

The  sun  was  up ;  above  the  hill  the  sky 
rippled  with  small  white  clouds,  and  then 
soared  into  an  arc  of  smiling  blue.  The 
barnyard  was  full  of  chickens,  and  there 
were  four  cows  standing  about,  chewing 
their  cud,  and  waiting  to  be  milked  ;  but 
right  in  front  of  her,  staring,  open- 
mouthed,  was  a  boy  in  blue  overalls,  with 
a  bucket  of  foaming  milk  in  each  hand. 
He  had  no  hat  on,  and  his  shock  of  pale 
hair  seemed  to  be  standing  on  end  with 
astonishment. 

"  Oh,  may  I  have  a  drink  of  milk  ? " 
said  Ellen.  She  sat  up,  gazing  with 
anguished  expectancy  at  the  milk.  The 
boy  nodded,  without  speaking ;  he  put 
down  one  bucket,  and  lifted  the  other  to 
the  child's  lips.  Her  hands  were  trem 
bling  with  weakness,  and  she  sobbed  as 


208  The  Story  of  a  Child 

she  drank.  She  did  not  let  go  of  the 
bucket  when  she  stopped  for  breath  ;  and 
then  she  drank  again.  "  Oh,  sir,  I  've  no 
money,"  she  said,  "  but  "  — 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  the  boy  interrupted. 
"  Are  you  the  little  girl  that 's  lost  from 
Old  Chester?" 

"  May  I  have  a  little  more  milk  ? "  the 
child  entreated.  "  My  grandmother  '11  pay 
you.  Oh,  grandmother  /  " 

"  If  you  come  up  to  the  house,  they  '11 
give  ye  some  breakfast,"  said  the  boy,  his 
eyes  big  with  excitement.  "  You  're  the 
girl,  I  know  you  are  ! "  As  he  spoke  he 
tilted  the  bucket  for  her  to  drink.  "  You 
come  on  up  to  the  house,  now.  Don't 
let  on  who  you  are,  till  I  tell  'em." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  'm  going  home  ;  oh,  I  'm  very 
much  obliged  to  you,  but  I  'm  going  home," 
said  Ellen,  rising,  and  beginning,  with  un 
steady  hands,  to  brush  the  hay  from  her 
hair  and  dress. 

"  No,  you  ain't,"  said  the  boy  firmly, 
"  not  till  I  've  told  the  boss  ;  now  you  just 


The  Story  of  a  Child  209 

wait  here."  With  that  he  picked  up  his 
buckets,  and  walked  swiftly  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  house.  When,  ten  minutes 
later,  he  came  running  back  with  a  big 
grizzled  farmer,  the  little  nest  in  the  hay 
was  empty. 


XV 

THE  night  which  had  brought  such  ex 
periences  to  Ellen  had  been  full  of 
dismay  and  pain  to  her  friends.  Perhaps 
no  one  suffered  more  keenly  than  did  poor 
little  Lydia,  lying  awake  with  her  dreadful 
secret.  At  ten,  her  mother  found  her 
staring  into  the  darkness,  and  sobbing 
now  and  then,  under  her  breath. 

"Tell  mother  what  is  the  matter, 
Lydia,"  said  Mrs.  Wright,  who  had  been 
careful  not  to  let  the  child  know  of  the 
anxiety  concerning  Ellen.  But  Lydia  had 
promised  "  not  to  tell,"  and  she  kept  her 
word.  Effie,  however,  having  given  her 
information,  and  assured  everybody  who 
would  listen  to  her,  half  a  dozen  times 

210 


The  Story  of  a  Child  21 1 

over,  that  she    had   "told  Ellen  not  to," 

—  Effie   was    calmly   sleeping.      Messen 
gers  were  hurried  in  every  direction.    Miss 
Jane  Temple  stayed  with  Mrs.  Dale  until 
almost   midnight,  trying   to   emulate    her 
calmness,  but   seeing  the    elder  woman's 
face  grow  white  and  haggard  as  the  slow 
hours  found  Ellen  still  away  from  home. 
Betsey    Thomas's    grief   was    unfeigned, 
and  her  anger  at  herself,  Mrs.  Dale,  Effie 
Temple,  and  the  peddler  —  who   had  by 
that  time  appeared  and  told  all  he  knew 

—  expended  itself   in   sharp  words  about 
every  one  but  Ellen  ;  for  the  real  offender 
she   had  nothing   but   incoherent  expres 
sions    of   affection   and   of   praise.      Mrs. 
Dale  was  silent.     What  her  thoughts,  her 
self-reproaches,  her  most  honest  and  vin 
dicating  judgments  may  have  been  no  one 
knew  ;  not  even  Miss  Jane,  sitting  beside 
her  as  the  night  wore  on.     At  dawn  she 
lost    her  pain  in  an  hour's  restless  sleep, 
and   by  that  time,  fleeing    from  the  boy 
who  had  given  her  the    milk,  Ellen   was 


2/2  The  Story  of  a  Child 

walking  swiftly  in  the  direction  of  her 
home.  This  was  really  only  a  fortunate 
chance,  for  the  child  had  been  so  turned 
around,  in  all  these  experiences,  that  she 
had  no  idea  where  Old  Chester  lay.  Once 
she  dared  to  stop  a  man  who  was  driving  a 
clattering  and  clanging  mowing-machine 
along  the  road,  to  ask  him  if  she  were 
near  Old  Chester,  only  to  be  shocked  to 
learn  that  she  was  twelve  or  fourteen 
miles  away. 

"  I  'm  goin'  a  good  piece  in  that  di 
rection,"  he  said,  slowly,  neither  specu 
lation  nor  kindness  in  his  stolid  harmless 
face  ;  "  I  got  a  field  to  mow  ;  an'  you  kin 
stand  up  here  in  front  of  me,  if  you  want 
to." 

Ellen  was  only  too  glad  to  avail  herself 
of  his  aid.  Her  mind  was  fastened  with 
such  intensity  upon  the  idea  of  getting 
home  that  she  felt  no  fear  of  the  mowing- 
machine  or  even  of  a  strange  man  ;  had 
it  been  the  peddler  who  made  this  offer, 
she  would  have  accepted  it !  This  con- 


The  Story  of  a  Child 

centration  kept  her  silent  ;  she  volun 
teered  no  information  about  herself,  and 
the  man  asked  no  questions.  When  at 
last  he  drew  his  horses  up  before  a  lane 
into  which  he  must  turn  to  reach  the  field 
to  be  mowed,  he  only  said,  briefly,  "  Yer 
not  more  'n  nine  miles  off  now,  sissy. " 
And  Ellen  said,  "  Yes,  sir ;  thank  you," 
and  plodded  on  alone. 

She  passed  several  people  after  that,  and 
one  or  two  carts,  but  no  one  offered  her 
a  ride ;  one  man  drew  up  his  horse  and 
looked  at  her  curiously,  and  seemed  about 
to  speak,  but  Ellen's  resolute  little  face, 
set  towards  Old  Chester,  seemed  to  satisfy 
him  that  she  could  not  be  the  lost  child  of 
whom  he  had  heard  rumors  an  hour  be 
fore.  It  seemed  to  Ellen,  having  wakened 
at  five,  that  it  must  be  at  least  twelve 
when  she  sat  down  by  the  roadside  to  rest ; 
but  really  it  was  only  half  past  eight,  and 
a  traveler  who  had  gotten  off  a  train  at 
Mercer  three  hours  before  had  had  ample 
time  to  walk  leisurely  along  in  the  direc- 


214  The  Story  of  a  Child 

tion  of  Old  Chester  and  overtake  her. 
Ellen,  dozing  with  fatigue,  opened  her 
eyes  to  see  this  traveler  standing  before 
her.  He  had  a  stick  over  his  shoulder, 
on  which  he  had  slung  a  traveling-bag. 
He  was  a  little  man,  with  anxious  eyes 
and  a  timid  air. 

"Why,  it  cant  be  little  Ellen  !  "  he  said. 

Ellen  stared  at  him,  her  eyes  dull  with 
misery,  and  then  a  flash  of  recognition 
sent  the  blood  surging  into  her  face,  and 
she  burst  out  into  passionate  crying. 

Mr.  Tommy  Dove  lifted  the  stick  from 
his  shoulder  and  rested  his  bag  carefully 
on  the  ground. 

"  Why,  little  Ellen  Dale  !  there,  —  there, 
don't,  my  dear,  don't !  Where  is  your 
grandmother,  or  Betsey  Thomas  ?  Are 
you  alone,  little  Ellen  ?  There,  now, 
there  ! " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Tommy !  "  the  child  said, 
"  Oh,  take  me  home  ;  won't  you  please  take 
me  home  ?  "  Mr.  Tommy,  distressed  almost 
to  tears,  looked  this  way  and  that  for  aid, 


ne  Story  of  a  Child  2/5 

while  he  tried  to  comfort  her.  "  Yes,  my 
little  girl  ;  yes,  yes  ;  directly !  You  shall 
go  home  directly.  But  how  did  you  come 
here?  Where  is — anybody?  You  are 
not  alone,  little  Ellen  ? " 

"I'll  — I'll  tell  you  — about  it,"  she 
said,  trying  to  speak,  but  shaken  by  these 
long  pent  up  tears ;  "  I  '11  tell  you  all 
about  it,  if  you'll  just  take  me  home. 
Oh,  Mr.  Tommy,  I  ran  away,  —  I  ran  away 
from  home ! "  The  poor  child  rocked 
back  and  forth,  and  moaned  in  unchild- 
like  grief.  As  for  Mr.  Dove,  he  was  so 
far  from  a  proper  perception  of  disci 
pline  that  he  took  the  little  penitent  into 
his  arms,  and  said,  "  Well,  there  !  that 's 
no  matter;  it's  all  right  —  it's  all  right. 
Why,  I  Ve  done  it  myself ! "  said  Mr. 
Dove.  But  Ellen  had  reached  at  last  that 
clear-sighted  repentance  which  knows  ex 
cuses  to  be  false  and  weak,  and  will  none 
of  them  —  the  only  repentance  which  has 
power  to  turn  the  sinner  from  darkness  to 
light.  "Oh  —  no  —  "  she  said,  faintly  ; 


2i 6  The  Story  of  a  Child 

"  I  'm  a  bad,  bad  girl.  Maybe  God  will 
forgive  me  some  day,  but  grandmother 
never  can,"  wailed  Ellen,  with  no  know 
ledge  of  sarcasm,  but  realizing  instinctively 
how  much  harder  it  is  to  make  one's 
peace  with  one's  kind  than  with  Infinite 
Goodness  ;  and  then  she  tried  to  tell  her 
story  :  "  Effie  Temple  was  going  to  run 
away  with  me.  But  she  was  better  than 
I  was;  she  wouldn't.  She  said  Miss 
Jane  wanted  her  to  have  a  dress  fitted, 
and  —  and  so  I  came  by  myself  ;  and  won't 
you  please  take  me  home  ?  Oh,  I  want 
to  go  home  ! " 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes,  my  dear,"  Mr.  Tommy 
soothed  her.  "  There,  we  '11  go  right 
home  now.  And —  and  you  say  Miss  Jane 
is  still  in  Old  Chester  ?  Well,  I  knew  it ; 
I  thought  so  ;  but  —  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  come  back.  It  was  weak  to  stay  away." 
Apparently  Mr.  Tommy  was  still  weak, 
for  the  color  came  and  went  painfully 
in  his  elderly  face.  "  And  is  her  brother 
there,  too  ? "  he  questioned. 


The  Story  of  a  Child  2/7 

"Dick?"  said  Ellen,  wiping  her  eyes. 
"Oh,  no,  he  went  away  a  good  while  ago." 

"  I  meant  "  —  explained  the  other,  "  I  re 
ferred  to  —  to  Mr.  Temple  ;  Jier  brother." 

"  Oh,  yes,  he 's  there.  Effie  said  her  papa 
loved  her,  and  so  she  would  n't  run  away. 
But  my  grandmother  does  love  me,  so  she 
does.  At  least,  she  did.  She  won't  any 
more  ;  oh,  never  any  more  !" 

Mr.  Dove  seemed  to  reflect ;  he  took  off 
his  hat,  and  then  put  it  on  again,  thought 
fully.  "We  must  get  a  conveyance,"  he 
announced.  As  he  spoke,  a  woman  with  a 
basket  on  her  arm  passed,  and  then  looked 
back  at  Ellen. 

"  Are  you  the  little  girl  that  was  lost  ?  " 
she  said,  pausing. 

"I  —  ran  away,"  Ellen  answered  truth 
fully,  hanging  her  head  with  shame. 

"She's  just  going  home,  ma'am,  now," 
Mr.  Dove  broke  in,  his  mild  voice  full  of 
comfort  and  sympathy.  "  Can  you  tell 
me  where  I  can  hire  a  vehicle  of  any 
kind  ? " 


218  The  Story  of  a  Child 

The  woman  considered.  "  There  's  the 
Smith  farm,  a  little  piece  up  the  road ; 
guess  they  'd  lend  you  their  carryall  ? " 

Mr.  Tommy  hurried  in  the  direction  the 
woman  had  indicated,  leaving  Ellen  to  her 
care,  and  returning  in  a  surprisingly  short 
time  with  a  battered  and  dusty  carriage 
drawn  by  a  lively  young  sorrel  horse. 
There  was  a  boy  with  him,  who  would, 
Mr.  Tommy  explained,  bring  the  carryall 
back  again. 

Ellen  was  glad  to  creep  into  it ;  her  eyes 
were  downcast  and  her  cheeks  burning 
with  shame,  for  the  questions  the  woman 
had  asked  her  during  Mr.  Dove's  absence 
opened  up  depths  of  mortification  of  which 
she  had  never  dreamed.  Her  despair 
had  been  too  dreadful  for  the  smaller  pain 
of  mortification.  But  now  she  bent  her 
head  down  sidewise  and  looked  out  at  the 
fields  past  which  the  sorrel  horse  was 
hurrying  them  at  a  fine  rate  ;  she  sup 
posed  Mr.  Tommy  would  ask  the  same 
dreadful  questions.  But  Mr.  Tommy 


The  Story  of  a  Child  2/9 

seemed  as  conscious  and  embarrassed  as 
she.  He  made  no  reference  to  her  wick 
edness,  and  was  silent  so  long  that  Ellen 
grew  tremulous  with  apprehension ;  his 
reproof,  when  it  came,  would  be  terrible, 
she  thought,  cowering. 

"  I  recollect,"  he  said  at  last,  coughing 
a  little  behind  his  hand,  "  I  recollect  Miss 
Effie  Temple  ;  she  is  Her  niece." 

Ellen  drew  a  long  breath.  To  talk  about 
Effie  was  a  respite.  "  Yes,  sir,"  she  said 
vaguely ;  and  then  she  saw  a  sign-post 
that  said,  "  Old  Chester,  7  miles,"  and  she 
felt,  through  all  her  relief  at  going  home, 
a  sudden  sinking  of  the  heart  that  was 
almost  sickness. 

"Miss  Effie  did  not,  I  think,  like  me," 
Mr.  Tommy  observed.  "  I  did  not  notice  it 
at  first ;  she  was  only  a  little  girl,  so  I  did 
not  notice  it.  But,  upon  reflection,  I  felt 
that  she  did  not.  I  felt  that  she  was 
glad  when  —  I  was  called  away  from  Old 
Chester." 

Ellen  made  an  effort  to  seem  interested 


220  The  Story  of  a  Child 

in  spite  of  the  misery  tugging  at  her  heart. 
"  But  Miss  Jane  was  sorry,  Mr.  Tommy, 
when  you  went  away.  Effie  told  me  so." 

Mr.  Tommy  started  ;  he  put  his  hand 
upon  the  door-knob.  "Oh,  no,  no,  little 
Ellen  ;  you  are  mistaken.  I  think  perhaps 
I'll  not  proceed  to  Old  Chester.  His 
voice  wavered  so  that  Ellen  gazed  at  him 
in  astonishment. 

"  Why,  Effie  said  so,  Mr.  Tommy,"  she 
assured  him  ;  and  then  the  connection  in 
which  Effie  had  said  it  came  back  to 
Ellen's  mind,  and  the  child  blushed  as 
violently  as  Mr.  Tommy  himself. 

The  apothecary,  however,  struggled  to 
regain  his  composure.  "  Yes,  yes,  I  see. 
Always  kind,  always  kind.  Yes,  I  under 
stand.  Sorry  ?  of  course  ;  —  for  me.  But 
I  believe  I  am  not  ready  to  come  back 
—  yet.  I  '11  —  I  '11  wait  a  little  longer  ; 
I  find  it  is  difficult  to  return.  I  —  I 
think"  — 

"  Are  n't  you  going  to  take  me  home, 
Mr.  Tommy  ? "  Ellen  interposed,  alarmed 


The  Story  of  a  Child  221 

at  the  prospect  of  being  dropped  by  the 
roadside.  Mr.  Tommy  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  I  '11  take  you  home,  little  Ellen ;  yes, 
I  '11  do  that ;  no  harm  to  do  that.  But  you 
don't  understand.  No,  you  couldn't  un 
derstand  ;  and  yet,  I  have  sometimes 
thought  that  the  other  child  did." 

"  Effie  ?  "  said  Ellen  boldly.  "  She  knew 
all  about  it,  Mr.  Tommy.  She  said  Miss 
Jane  was  mad  because  you  went  away. 
She  thought  you  'd  come  back,  Effie  said  ; 
but  you  did  n't,  and  she  was  mad.  Are 
you  going  back  now,  Mr.  Tommy?" 

Mr.  Dove  fell  into  the  corner  of  the  car 
riage,  too  deep  in  thought  to  answer  her. 

"  Three  miles  to  Old  Chester,"  a  sign 
board  declared,  and  Ellen  forgot  Mr.  Tom 
my's  interests  in  her  own.  Twice  they 
were  stopped  by  excited  voices  hailing 
them  from  the  roadside. 

"  Oh,  there  she  is  !  "  "  Oh,  where  were 
you,  child?  How  did  you  get  lost?" 
And  when  the  first  relief  and  excitement 
had  been  expressed,  came  astonished  ex- 


222  Tbe  Story  of  a  Child 

clamations  that  it  was  Mr.  Tommy  who 
had  brought  the  lost  child  home. 

"  Hallo,  hallo  !  "  said  one  man  ;  "  did  you 
find  her,  Tommy,  or  did  she  find  you  ?  " 
He  was  glad  to  be  facetious  to  hide  his 
agitation.  Ellen  had  made  a  sensation  in 
Old  Chester. 

Once  they  stopped  long  enough  to  let 
Miss  Minns  climb  on  to  the  carriage  step 
and  give  Ellen  a  sounding  kiss.  Miss 
Minns  was  the  postmistress,  and  was  tall 
and  pale,  and  had  the  reputation  of  being 
cross.  But  now  she  was  almost  as  gentle 
as  Miss  Jane  Temple,  except  in  her  shrill 
surprise  upon  seeing  who  was  escorting 
the  lost  child. 

By  this  time  Ellen  could  scarcely  sit 
still.  "  Oh,  grandmother,  grandmother  !  " 
she  was  whispering  to  herself.  At  Mrs. 
Dale's  gate,  Mr.  Tommy  made  a  gesture 
to  the  lad  who  was  driving  them. 

"Boy,"  he  said,  "you  can  stop.  Here's 
your  money.  I  shall  get  out  here,  little 
Ellen,  but  he  will  drive  you  on." 


Tbe  Story  of  a  Child  223 

Mr.  Dove  got  out  of  the  carryall  as  he 
spoke,  but  Ellen  instantly  followed  him. 
"  I  'd  rather  walk  with  you,  Mr.  Tommy," 
she  said  in  a  frightened  voice.  And  then, 
a  moment  later  with  wildly  beating  hearts, 
the  apothecary  and  the  child  found  them 
selves  standing  before  the  great  iron  gates 
of  Mrs.  Dale's  garden. 

Beyond,  a  little  farther  up  the  lane, 
was  Mr.  Henry  Temple's  place.  Mr. 
Tommy  looked  towards  it  with  a  wistful 
sort  of  fright,  and  yet  a  quiet  dignity  too ; 
for  Thomas  Dove,  as  Mrs.  Dale  had  said, 
had  seen  something  of  the  world  since 
that  miserable  night  when  Henry  Temple 
ordered  him  from  his  house.  Even  as  he 
looked  Mr.  Temple's  gate  swung  open, 
and  Miss  Jane  came  with  hurrying,  anx 
ious  steps  down  the  road.  She  was  has 
tening  to  Mrs.  Dale's,  hoping  that  she 
might  hear  some  tidings  of  Ellen. 

Mr.  Tommy,  fumbling  with  the  clanging 
iron  latch  of  the  gate,  looked  about  him 
a  little  wildly,  as  though  uncertain  in 


224  The  Story  of  a  Child 

which  direction  to  flee  ;  but  Ellen  turned, 
with  a  cry.  "  Oh,  Miss  Jane,  I  'm  here. 
Oh,  where  's  grandmother  ?  " 

Miss  Jane,  with  eyes  only  for  Ellen,  ran 
towards  them  and  caught  the  little  girl  in 
her  arms;  "Oh — Ellen!"  she  said,  her 
kind  eyes  running  over.  And  then  she 
looked  up  to  see  who  had  brought  the 
child  back. 

"What!  Mr.  Dove!"  Jane  Temple 
put  out  her  hand,  and  then  turned  away, 
and  then  looked  back  again.  "  Run,  El 
len,  run  to  your  grandmother,  my  dear," 
she  said  faintly.  But  Ellen  had  not  waited 
to  be  told.  She  slipped  from  Miss  Jane's 
arms,  and  ran  as  fast  as  she  could  towards 
that  distressed  and  anxious  house  where, 
worn  from  the  night,  Mrs.  Dale  was  wait 
ing  and  praying  for  tidings  of  the  one 
human  creature  that  she  loved.  Ellen, 
blind  with  tears,  went  stumbling  up  the 
front  steps,  and  saw,  within  the  darkened 
parlor,  the  figure  of  her  grandmother 
pacing  with  insistent  composure,  up  and 


Tbe  Story  of  a  Child  225 

down,  up  and  down.  How  she  reached 
her,  how  her  little  heart  found  words,  how 
the  agony  of  all  those  hours  ended,  the 
child  never  knew. 

As  for  Miss  Jane,  she  seemed  to  waver, 
as  she  stood  there  in  the  morning  sun 
shine  before  her  old  lover ;  should  she 
go  or  stay  ?  should  she  follow  Ellen  —  or 
her  heart  ? 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Dove  ! "  she  said,  breathing 
quickly,  and  looking  away  from  him,  but 
feeling  his  eyes  commanding  hers,  and  so 
looking  back  at  him  again,  —  "  Oh,  Mr. 
Dove  !  I  have  n't  seen  you  this  summer. 
Are  you  well  ? "  The  night  of  anxiety 
had  been  too  great  a  strain ;  her  self-pos 
session  was  gone.  "  I  hope  you  are  very 
well,"  she  repeated,  much  agitated.  She 
put  her  hand  in  her  pocket,  and  seemed 
to  crush  something  with  nervous  haste. 

Perhaps  her  agitation  calmed  Mr. 
Tommy.  He  took  her  left  hand  and  held 
it  in  his.  "I  felt  I  must  come  back.  May 
I  stay,  Miss  Jane  ?  Will  you  let  me  stay  ? 


226  The  Story  of  a  Child 

You  will  not  say  I  must  go  away  again  ? 
We  have  our  own  lives  to  live  ;  please 
tell  me  I  may  stay,  ma'am  ?  Oh,  I  hope 
you  're  not  angry  that  I  have  come  back  ?  " 

"  Angry  ? "  said  Miss  Jane,  her  lips 
trembling  and  her  eyes  smiling.  "  Oh, 
why  should  I  be,  Mr.  Dove  ?  Why  — 
I  " —  There  was  a  crumpled  letter  in  her 
hand,  and  she  put  it  up  to  her  face  to  hide 
her  tears,  and  then  laid  it  in  his  hands, 
with  a  gesture  as  lovely  and  as  impulsive 
as  a  girl's.  "  I  'm  glad  you  've  come  back  ; 
you  must  never  leave  me  any  more  ! " 

They  had  both  forgotten  Ellen. 


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